Waterloo
by Gemenied
Summary: June 1815: On the fields of one of the most famous battles in history where men fight for their advantage, two strangers meet. Yet, despite the agenda they both have to follow, those momentous days might seal their fate in a most unexpected way.
1. Intro  Pt I

**Title**: Waterloo

**Rating:** T (M later on - nothing really graphic)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything, except a love for this show, it's characters and history.

**Summary**: In June 1815, men fight for advantage on the fields of battle, while women fight for what they must.

**A/N**: I knew it would come to this as soon as I found out that one of the final episodes would be called "Waterloo". After I pulled myself up from rolling on the floor laughing, my mind went wild knowing that something like this just had to be written. And writing I am. Basically all people mentioned (except the OCs and the characters you know) have actually existed. The same goes for places, events and details - as far as I could research them. Waterloo was one of the bloodiest and strangest battles of pre-modern times and the more I read about it, the more fascinated I am. This story is almost more for my own enjoyment than yours - but I really hope, you will enjoy it too.

If you're ready now - lets get on with it.

Enjoy.

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><p><strong>Waterloo<strong>

**Intro - Part I**

The first day of March of the year of the Lord 1815 was a grey and wet day throughout most of continental Europe. In its northern and eastern edges - Moscow and Stockholm - snow was still freezing the land beneath. London experienced its usual heavy rain and the hungry women of Paris - prematurely aged by years of war, hunger and the loss of men and sons - queued in freezing downpours as they hoped to buy a minimum of flour to feed their hungry families.

History had forgotten about most of the women, of their families - as it generally tends to forget the common people who endure a war and do the actual fighting.

On this day, all eyes of history and politics were turned towards Vienna, where the great men and those who considered themselves great discussed and bartered the future of Europe. Countries, small stretches of land, they all were dealt with on a smaller and greater scale, underneath heavy and gleaming chandeliers, while in the larger rooms waltzes were played and danced. It was the moment where everybody who was somebody, and everybody who wanted to be somebody, simply had to be in Vienna - at least, not to miss any of what was deemed the most important action of the time.

That, however, proved to be a mistake.

On the same day, on a small non-descript spot near Antibes, the ghost everybody in Vienna believed to have successfully left behind reared his head. That morning, none other than Napoleon Bonaparte, exiled emperor of the French, landed on the soil of his former empire - willing and ready to seize control again.

In less than 24 hours, the shocking news of his return had reached the important cities - causing fear, horror, excitement and more than a little bit of hope in Paris, in Marseille, in Lyon. In Vienna, quite a few ladies felt faint, while gentlemen quickly swallowed their drinks to calm their nerves.

Emperor Francis I was said to have broken into tears.

Czar Alexander sequestered himself with his officers in his palais for hours of intense discussion.

The Prussian delegate was said to have taken ill.

The Duke of Wellington sent his adjutants on various errands, despatching messengers to God knows where.

Monsieur Talleyrand was seen with an unreadable expression. But then, nothing else had been expected of the cunning leader of the French delegation who had managed to survive the Revolution, the Grand Terreur...and...the imperial rule of Bonaparte...only to be charged with important posts under each.

As the news spread throughout the small alleys of Vienna, the din of gossip rose as well. Wild suggestions were heard, that the French army would desert completely and run back to Bonaparte, that they'd shoot him on sight, that King Louis had already fled, would flee, take his life, be killed by the angry Parisian mob.

While street people almost happily spread the gossip, behind the closed doors of meetings and strategy sessions the excitement was no smaller, but much more refined.

It didn't take long for the allied leaders and their generals and diplomats to come to one conclusion: should the unthinkable happen and Napoleon Bonaparte succeed in retaking the throne of France, then the largest army imaginable would stand against him.

Of course, nobody _really_ expected the Corse to return to the _Tuileries_.

That, however, proved to be another mistake.

It wasn't even three weeks before Napoleon Bonaparte - former and now reinstated Emperor of the French - was carried into his palace on the shoulders of his enthusiastic supporters.

Once again the capitals of Europe were caught in shock. Vienna, experienced in sieges by Napoleons troops, in fact ceased all activities for a moment. Even the musicians halted in their play.

Carriages rushed over the crowded roads from port to port, carrying people, goods, and much more importantly, news and messages.

It didn't come as a surprise that the French mobilized again, the Emperor declaring that he intended to return to his empire's former glory. Fear spread quickly, remembering his military prowess.

However, his troops were few and far stretched. The allies intended to use this advantage, beginning to gather troops themselves.

* * *

><p>On the day that the news of Bonaparte's mobilization act reached London, in the early afternoon, there was a knock on the front door of the grand Georgian building in a quietly elegant street on the outskirts of town.<p>

The butler who opened the door eyed the boy outside with disdain, fully intent on closing the door in the lad's face. However, his plans were interrupted by a young woman, the companion of the Lady of the House.

"What is it, Ames?" she asked politely, but with an air of authority.

Knowing how her ladyship supported and protected her companion, the butler preferred to demur and point to the blond boy outside. "The lad claims to bring news from the continent for her ladyship, Miss Eve. Claims that it was sent by a friend of her ladyship's in Brussels."

The young woman nodded, hiding any possible emotion behind the mask of the polite smile covering her pale face. "Thank you, Ames. I'll deal with our guest."

The butler inwardly rolled his eyes as he turned away, but chose to say nothing. He was an experienced man at his job, had been long with the family, and if he was honest, he trusted her ladyship's decisions and instincts a lot more than he did his lordships. If the Lady trusted her companion this much, then he would oblige.

Business was hastily dealt with, the lad sent away with a few shillings and a smile. The folded message in her hand, Eve felt it burn her skin. Was this what they'd been waiting for?

Barely able to keep up a proper countenance, she hurried up the stairs towards her lady's boudoir.

The woman sitting at the small desk inside the room barely acknowledged the interruption of her study of the foliant before her.

"What is it, Eve?" she asked distractedly.

"A letter from the continent, my lady. The lad who delivered it said it comes from Brussels."

The older woman started, almost whipped around to stare at her companion. Her blue eyes were intense as they trained on the other.

"Does it bring news?" she asked, her emotions loud and clear in her voice.

"I hope so, my lady."

The hand that stretched out for the letter was shaking, as was the one that covered her mouth, as Lady Grace Foley took the parchment that might possibly yield her fate.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	2. Intro  Pt II

A/N: So, a few people begged (almost on their knees) and who am I to deny them? Please enjoy this new chapter. Since some of you are quite excitable, I put a warning here: Man in uniform (tight uniform, they didn't do baggy back then). Other than that, we are getting into the plot and after this, we'll move geographically to the continent.

At this point - because I forgot to say it with the original chapter: Many, many thanks go to my awesome beta ShadowSamurai83. You are a total star! And to the self-help group. Love ya!

But now...enjoy!

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><p><strong>Waterloo<strong>

**Intro - Part II**

**May 20th 1815**

Even though the allied forced had declared Napoleon an outlaw as early as March 13th and announced to mobilize against him before he even reached Paris, it was a slow going process. With so many troops having to travel towards the French borders, it was a logistic problem to begin with. Troops had been spread all over the continent, gathering them now took time.

The Duke of Wellington especially was displeased with the state of his troops, the most experienced having been deployed in the American War still. He was to command a very mixed army, of mixed languages, origins and unfortunately, mixed skill.

To gather, form and train an army able to defeat the French would be a struggle. A time consuming one at that.

The unfortunate aspect was that Napoleon, relying on his scintillating personality and the hopes of his people, would be much quicker.

The city was experiencing a rare spell of warm and sunny weather, which unfortunately led to an almost unshakable stench covering the buildings. Even if hardened to all sorts of smells, it made breathing difficult.

The uniformed man rushing through the streets of Whitehall was no exception to the rule. His uniform showed him to be an experienced and highly decorated soldier in his Majesty's army, a veteran of several of the recent campaigns. People on the street respectfully jumped aside as he marched between them, his disdainful expression warning everybody off.

He entered a building near the offices of the general staff, which contained a private club catering to the needs and wants of high standing officers. While definitely not looking out of place, it was clear from the soldier's mien that he rather be anywhere but here.

Once shown into a private room, however, the respect he carried for his host became visible.

"Colonel, sir," the man greeted, bowing his head quickly but respectfully.

"Captain." The other man smiled slightly. "I'm glad you could make it."

"I do not believe there was an option for me to refuse your summons, sir."

"My dear Captain Boyd,..." The other man laughed. "...I've known you since we both entered the service. In all that time I've never known you to follow orders easily. Drink?"

In response, the other man nodded and sat down on a fauteuil. His sabre clinked quietly against the ceremonial buttons of his uniform. "I doubt, however, that you've summoned me to discuss the flaws of my personality, sir."

"Hardly. It would take too long." Both men allowed themselves a short smile as they took hold of their drinks and swallowed a sip.

The colonel leaned back on his chair, which was still too small for his tall and lanky frame, and eyed his companion. "How have things been for you, Boyd? Since the funeral, I mean. I have not seen you since."

Boyd shrugged. "It has been busy, even without Boney returning. I've been to Spain again, to Vienna, to Berlin as well. Having no actual war on our hands does not mean that it is all quiet amongst our troops. France is still...not quiet."

Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Christie smiled. "Even though you are now answering to a different superior in your day to day actions, you are still under my general command, Boyd. I know where you have been and what your recent work entailed. I was enquiring about your personal life."

"I've been recently widowed, sir. I do not have a personal life." The short answer, bordering on curt, might have sounded insubordinate, but Christie let it slide.

"And the General?"

With a sigh, Boyd drew a hand through his hair, then shook his head. He did not want to discuss this issue. It was not a topic one discussed with a superior officer, no matter how long they'd known each other and how cordial they were.

"His Excellency has made it clear to me that he considers our ties severed with the death of his daughter." In a quick move, Boyd got up and started to pace. His voice was rough as he continued. "He blames me for it. And rightfully so. First Lucas, now Mary..."

Christie chose not to comment. He knew General Hartford and his eternal displeasure with his son-in-law. Boyd had proved to be very much a man of his own mind, not easy to mould and manipulate. If he had been, their ranks would have been reversed, at least. But Boyd had always refused the politics connected to fast advancement, doing his service because he believed in it. That had always been a sore point between him and his wife, and naturally, her father who wanted his precious daughter to be at least a general's wife.

Relations between the couple and the family had deteriorated over the years, a process sped up by the early death of their son.

Six months ago, Mary Boyd had succumbed to a fever. Since then, her naturally solitary husband had become even more remote. It worried Christie, who - despite their differences in personality - considered the other man a friend.

He nodded, but did not continue with the topic. He knew Boyd would not appreciate it. "Personal talk aside, Boyd, that's not why I asked you here."

The captain sat down again, his posture and expression curious and all business. "I take it our French friend has quite a few gentlemen worried."

"Naturally, and it has not even begun yet. His Highness, the Duke of Wellington, will command the largest army ever deployed against Napoleon..."

"And the Germans?"

Christie snorted quietly. "Castlereagh has put a dampener on their support. The Emperor in Vienna is reluctant to send troops..."

Boyd allowed himself a small chuckle of derision. "Between us, they've never been any good. Aspern was a stroke of luck."

"Such sayings will get you demoted, Boyd, you know that."

"Is it untrue?" Boyd smiled.

His companion took another sip of his whisky and shook his head. "We will depend much more on Prussian support, Blücher and Zieten. They promised about 50000 men. Blücher is an experienced man."

Boyd nodded. "Where?"

"Belgium, the Brabant province. The Duke is putting a lot of pressure on the offices here in London. The forces that are not on the continent yet will ship to Brussels expeditiously. Once our forces are united with the Prussians we march onto Paris."

"In the hope that Napoleon will not act before and destroy our strategy," the captain interrupted.

Getting up, Christie walked towards the assortment of bottles on the side. "Another?" He held up his glass in question. Instead of an answer, Boyd got up and joined him. As he poured, Christie lowered his voice. "It's where you come in, Boyd. We have a problem. Two, in fact. Colonel Grant is in command of the Duke's intelligence and his staff has made a direct request for you. There are hints about a large scale operation, pilfering our depots in Belgium and selling our supplies. There were also several raids on transports, both in the ports of Brussels and Rotterdam. In the last one, a distinct sum of gold was stolen. We fear that it might be a small group operating behind our lines for Bonaparte."

"Weakening our troops and strengthening theirs."

"Yes. But that's only one side of the situation. We expect that along with the goods and money, these people pass on information. In fact, Col. Grant's office is sure of it."

He started to pace a little, taking measured steps around the room. After a while, Boyd stopped and looked at Christie. "Nobody in the general staff can be so naïve to believe that Napoleon does not already have his spies everywhere amongst our troops." Seeing Christie nod in agreement, he continued. "Thus, I am certain that he is well-informed of our movements."

"It is the scale that worries us. Also, we do believe that this group is not necessarily comprised of Frenchmen wanting to support their idolized Emperor. We think we deal with Englishmen, marauders who will sell their services for the highest price."

"Englishmen. That would be high treason."

"Exactly."

Boyd nodded once more and took up his pacing again. Christie wisely did not interrupt.

"Where do I come in, sir? Col. Grant has very able staff to do the work."

Christie nodded and took a sip from his glass. "It seems as if this group always leaves...let us say...hints. Dead bodies. Shot, possibly tortured. They all bear a distinct mark and according to Col. Grant's office, this is where you are the man with the expertise, Boyd."

Boyd nodded in acknowledgement, both at the praise and information given.

"I will have to fit in to gathering troops, look like a regular soldier while making the inquiries necessary."

"Oh, you will, my friend. Our marching orders have arrived on my desk earlier today. Our regiment will be deployed between Ostend and Brussels. It is one of the few regiments experienced in fighting Boney. Should it come to a battle, you will hold and carry out your full rank and duty as a captain of the 11th Light Dragoons. Your platoon will be waiting for you. Until then, you and the men of your choice will...investigate."

There was a pause as both men considered the battle they both knew was before them. It was certain that Napoleon could not and would not be defeated in small skirmishes. They were heading for a full-fledged war. The seventh in twenty years.

"Do we have anything I can start with?"

Christie nodded once again. "Over the last days and weeks, one name has been mentioned time and again, so we believe him to be involved. The man calls himself 'Jean le pilleur'."

"'The marauder'," Boyd scoffed. "Not very inventive."

"His actions are inventive enough for us."

"I understand, sir."

They paused once again. Then Boyd stood at attention. "What exactly am I charged with, sir?"

In response, the colonel rose to full height as well. "Captain Peter Boyd, you are charged by His Majesty, King George, to discover the members of this group and stop their activities. At all cost."

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><p>The hut was very different from the houses of his childhood. However, it had been several years since he had set foot into any one of them. He had fled the halls, disgusted by what he had seen, what he had heard. He had not wanted any part of it.<p>

All his life he had been torn between the pompous tradition and the draw of liberal ideas. The ideas were spread by 'the monster' and to even consider them was a crime. They had taken hold though in the house, in secret, in hushed conversation, in the quiet flicker of dark blue eyes.

That was the one thing his missed. Those dark blue eyes.

News from the island were sparse, so he knew little about what had happened and changed in his childhood homes. He had heard of his father's death, of his sister's marriages, of the disdain his mother endured.

This had almost convinced him to return.

But now... The rumour he had heard. If it were true...he could not return. Not until he had killed.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	3. May 25th

**A/N: **Hello all, this is a little welcome back for VoyICJ and a little cheer me up for CatS81. I also want to thank those few of you who read and comment. I'm glad I have you intrigued and entertained. We are now moving into story proper, if you will and I hope you enjoy this too.

Many thanks go to the self-help group and of course to Shadowsamurai83 for the endless patience and stellar job with the betaing.

**Enjoy!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>May 25th<strong>

Compared to the last time he had been to Brussels, the atmosphere now compared to a city on the edge. The laughter was louder than he remembered, but there was a hysterical undertone to it. The coaches were more numerous, the riders as well, but their movements seemed more rushed than usual. Military presence, always visible, now created an overwhelming tapestry of uniforms.

Still, there was a gaiety that compared to the rush into the abyss.

Nobody really believed... No, that was not true. Nobody wanted to believe that Bonaparte would really march and win. If he did, then Brussels was lost. Then Europe was lost.

The Corse had won battles much less in his favour and fighting such a diverse force... Their only hope was that the mass of French soldiers, barely out of short trousers, would be even less experienced than their English, Dutch, German and Danish counterparts.

Boyd saw the development with an experienced eye and a shake of his head. He had never liked the city particularly; there was just something about it that he found slightly disconcerting. It was a city that made promises but never kept them.

Luckily, this time he would have to spend little time here and then he would be out in the fields on his way to the encampment. That life was more to his taste.

With practiced skill, he led his horse into the Rue Royale where the Duke's headquarters were located. Though he had supposedly no business with his commander-in-chief at this time, this might change quickly. Almost all soldiers of rank knew of the peculiar habits of the Duke. Everything and anything interested him and intelligence of this proportion could be a vital advantage in the battle they were preparing for. Though business was with Col. Grant for the time being, Boyd had still ordered his two companions to don their parade uniforms.

As they dismounted, he took a careful account of their appearance. As always, his uniform and shako were immaculate, even the feathers on top were groomed. Though not really a vain man, Boyd had always felt the need to appear worthy of his position and rank.

Such concerns, unfortunately, did not bother one of his companions, who put little effort into his appearance. However, his skills were incomparable, so he could not really do without Frank Wharton, hard as it was at times. The man could be insufferable at times, mouthy and uncouth, but he could read trails and scenes like no other. Their shared experiences at _El Bodon_ and _Salamanca_ formed a bond and despite their differences, Boyd would rather have Lieutenant Wharton with him than most other men.

Though it had been an uphill struggle, ending in a direct order, Wharton had donned his parade blues as well. Boyd expected it would only be a matter of minutes until the white breeches would no longer be white.

His other companion, currently making sure that their horses were indeed securely tied, would not offer such disgrace to the uniform. If nothing else, Cornet Spencer Jordan was a tidy man, good at organizing and acquiring, both provisions and information. If Boyd was honest, he would not trust any other person to have his back like he did Jordan. The man's rank was a disgrace and it was entirely possible that a few men at headquarters would curl their noses, but Captain Boyd did not care.

Col. Grant had given him free reign to choose his own people, and he would not allow some snotty staff officers who had never seen a gun fired at them to belittle a war-hardened and honoured soldier because of his skin colour. They knew just as well as he did that a third of the Army was by now made up of men from the colonies.

"Lively city, is it not?" Jordan asked in his slightly accented voice as he looked around, taking in the hustle and bustle.

"No London, if you ask me," Wharton returned, eyeing the women especially with disdain.

"We will not be here long enough to take a closer look. We keep our appointment with Col. Grant and then we will move to _Enghien_ to the encampment." Boyd did not leave any room for discussion as he turned decisively away from the horses and towards the entrance of the _palais_. The two lower ranking men had no choice but to follow him.

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><p>Unlike their common commander-in-chief, Lt. Col. Colquhoun Grant was a man who preferred to give official moments their outward due. Thus his eyes quickly cast their gaze over the uniforms of his visitors. Though Lt. Wharton looked like he'd rather be in sack clothes than parade best, there was not a hair out of place on either of the three men.<p>

Still, the Colonel took his time to appraise them. Of course, he knew all there was to know about them. Being responsible for military intelligence, it was his business to do so. If the last years fighting Napoleon had proved anything, then it was that information often times ranked more important than a larger number of guns. This had been Napoleon's downfall in Russia and at Leipzig; it was his advantage now, upon his return.

Grant knew the reputation of these men, knew their skills. Since the Peninsular campaign had ended, Captain Boyd and his men had travelled far and wide on the continent, even been to America to gather intelligence and resolve unpleasant situations. There had been no doubt and no hesitation in requesting Boyd. Aside from being an incredibly skilled investigator, he was also a damn fine soldier. Unlucky that old Hartford could not get over his grudge.

"Captain Boyd, Colonel Christie informed you of your task before you left London, I am certain."

Boyd nodded. "Yes, sir."

Standing at attention, the three men posed a striking sight. Grant was impressed. "At ease," he said as he stood up from behind his desk and motioned the three men to follow him to a side table.

There were papers strewn on it, one of them a sketch showing a somewhat deformed face. "One of our soldiers did this sketch of a corpse that was found near Charleroi a good two weeks ago. As you can see, the man was treated to at least one very heavy blow to the face."

"Could a specific weapon be identified, sir?" Lt. Wharton interrupted with an eager tone to his voice.

Boyd frowned at the misconduct, but Col. Grant let it slide. "Not yet, Lt. Wharton," he replied with a slight smile. "We hope that you will be able to make more of this sketch or further corpses than we have so far."

"There were more, sir?" Boyd asked.

"Yes," Grant answered with a sigh. "We have found 15 corpses. All within a 30-mile radius towards Brussels. They all had their hands bound on their backs and were shot from behind. Some of them still had their eyes covered, most showed signs of having been beaten, but all of them had this particular wound in the face."

"The shot was fatal, sir?" It was Jordan who asked, a breach of protocol considering his low rank.

Col. Grant hesitated for a moment, fully aware of the Cornet's breach of etiquette. However, the question was valid and he could hardly allow Captain Boyd to use men of his choice and then reprimand them for fulfilling their task. Still, a commander in the rank of a Colonel could hardly answer a direct question from a simple Cornet, a coloured one at that. With a quick hand gesture, he motioned another man to join them and actually answer the question. Quietly he noticed the way both Boyd and Wharton bristled at his behaviour.

"It is always a clean shot to the heart."

"Death occurs within seconds then," Wharton interrupted.

"...Yes. We assume it is so they cannot shout for help or in any other way attract attention."

"Rifle or pistol?"

The new man, a Lt. Worral as they would later find out, shrugged. "I am no expert, but I would say it is a pistol."

"Do you have any of the bullets from one of the victims?" Boyd returned from his frowning scrutiny of Col. Grant.

The Lieutenant nodded and produced a small cloth in which a bullet was held.

Wharton picked it up and turned it over in his gloved palm. "It is lighter than usual, not meant to go long distances."

"An execution, then?"

"I would assume so." Wharton picked up the bullet again, squinting to read the carvings on it. Then he snorted quietly. Turning towards Lt. Worral, he shook his head. "Monsieur le Pilleur wishes to make a statement?"

The other Lieutenant shook his head so that his curly hair flew. "No. That is how we made the connection. We are not certain he shot those people himself, but he wants us to know that he is involved."

"The bullets are a signature then? A sign of pride?" Boyd asked. The way these few information were shaping up, they would be dealing with a dangerous man, one who did not fear discovery, thrived on it, in fact. If that was so, he really wished they would have somebody who could imagine how the mind of such a criminal worked.

"There is no pattern to the victims," Col. Grant rejoined the conversation. "Except that all those men were either English soldiers or in one way or the other involved with English troops in particular. Jean le Pilleur is also leaving signatures in our supply stores which he raids. The man is a threat to our armies and he needs to be stopped!"

The tone of the order made the four lower ranked men go back to attention stance. "Yes, sir!" Boyd spoke.

Grant nodded and with a small wave of his hand, dismissed the officers.

Saluting they turned, but had not reached the door, before Boyd stopped. "Sir, what timeframe do we have to...stop Monsieur le Pilleur?"

The Colonel allowed himself a small smile as he picked up the tumbler of whisky from his desk. "The Duke wishes no disturbance during his campaign against Napoleon. Invasion of France is planned for no later than July 1st." He gave Boyd an intense look. "That is it... Unless Bonaparte decides to attack sooner."

With that he turned away, effectively ending the meeting.

* * *

><p>Out in the streets, the three soldiers quickly returned to their horses, leading them away from the <em>palais<em>. If anything the streets had gotten even busier than before. Maybe it was just a matter of imagination, though.

"They were worried in there," Jordan ventured after a few minutes.

"Rightly so," Wharton replied and quickened his step. "I did not want to say anything in there, though I doubt they do not know already what I did not say."

"You are speaking in riddles," Boyd replied, though his voice indicated that he did not pay full attention. His gaze swept over the sidewalks, taking in all the people rushing back and forth there. It was a habit he had picked up over the years, one that had served him well. At the moment, his attention was caught by two women leaving an apothecary shop. At least that was what the sign above said.

They were not Belgian. Or Dutch. Or French or German. In fact, judging from their dresses they were English. Of higher standing. He could not exactly put his finger on it, but somehow, there was something about them. Not so much the brunette, taller and younger as she seemed to be. It was the blonde with her...

"You are not paying attention, Boyd," Wharton reminded him with a grin, having followed his Captain's line of sight. "Could be fatal in battle."

On his other side, Jordan also smirked, but kept silent.

Boyd gave them both a withering glare. "You were saying, Lieutenant?"

"The pistol was no ordinary one," Wharton replied, being all business again instantly. "It was finest Italian craftsmanship, though I dare say that parts of the mechanics were produced in Saxony."

"Expensive?" Cornet Jordan asked carefully.

"And rare. No such pistols have been produced since Napoleon conquered Italy."

Now offering his full attention to his companions Boyd narrowed his eyes by way of asking. "What are you saying?"

Wharton shrugged. "I think we might be dealing with a very rich man who enjoys playing the rogue, and judging from the treatment of his victims I presume, he will not hesitate to kill anything and anybody who stands in his way."

* * *

><p>The English were not very careful to conceal their movements it seemed.<p>

Granted, the person spoke the language and years of experience made certain they knew how to blend in, but they did make it rather easy.

Brussels was and remained an open town, all the world being able to go through it, see and hear. It was a spy's dream.

It was a dream for people like them.

The only thing making it even easier would be, if the papers were to publish a daily update on which regiment was how strong and went where, and where the army stored it's artillery - lacking though it was - and its supplies.

They did not even need to write anything down or go to inspect it secretively by night. Everything was open for everybody to walk by and take stock for themselves.

So, they did.

There was no guard patrolling by day, not even by night. It was an invitation: _Come and take what you like. We will not prosecute you, we will not even notice what you have taken_.

Foolish, really.

Dangerous too.

It was only a matter of time before Napoleon would march on Brussels, and one thing was certain: Napoleon would march long before the Duke of Wellington had his armies ready. The Emperor of the French also did not make the mistake his English counterpart made. He kept his hand close to his heart and mind. Nobody in Rue Royale had a clear impression on how far the French rearmament had progressed, while, obviously, all things were laid open on the Allies.

Outside of town the landscape was as pretty as anywhere, mostly plains, but with a few low hills. Many smaller and larger woods, perfect to disappear into.

They would have no trouble hiding from prying eyes should it become necessary. With all eyes focussed on Brussels and the armies either revelling or anxiously looking towards Paris, who would bother to look for men and women meeting in the meadows? Who would pry too deeply into provisions disappearing?

And with a battle looming sooner or later, who would really investigate the odd dead body?

The person pressed against a wall from where one could easily overlook the British headquarters smiled.

Who would indeed?

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would really be appreciated. Thank you.<p> 


	4. June 6th  Pt I

A/N: An update! Yes, there is. And there is plot. Oh dear. Hope you'll stick with me.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 6th, 1815<strong>

The way he was marching through the camp told every person in eye sight that it was better to avoid standing in the Captain's way. More than one man, and woman, eyed the two soldiers hastening after their superior officer with a pitiful glance. The poor souls who would have to endure the man's anger...

Reaching the horses, Boyd mounted his own without paying attention to his surroundings. For some reason, even camp life disagreed with him this time. They were quite a few miles out of Brussels, yet it seemed as if Brussels had followed them to the camp.

Of course, there were exercises and troop reviews, his own platoon was coming along quite nicely, but it seemed as if the society, no matter what nation, saw it as a jolly afternoon entertainment to ride out into the encampment and make merry. The only thing that accomplished were soldiers busier to look groomed and debonair than preparing for battle.

Boyd had made his experiences in several campaigns. It was a given that women lived in or nearby the encampments. He had yet to find one where there were not any loose women-folk offering their services. Just like there always were makeshift taverns. The soldiers, far from home and with possible death before their eyes needed such repose, and he was not opposed to it as such, but here this was turning into a circus.

A quick gesture forced his companions to follow him as they led their horses out onto the road.

"You can barely make out who is what," Jordan grumbled after a while. "They are treating a possible battle ground like the annual cattle fair. It will be a pain finding any viable trace of Jean le Pilleur."

His superiors did not reply and instead forced their horses into a faster step. Taking the hint, Jordan did not say any more either, just followed along and kept his eyes open and his memory as sharp as possible.

The roads were winding down south and south-east towards the French border. It was not far, less than 30 miles. They had to be careful not crossing it and thus provoke Boney into earlier action. Of course, with all the people running back and forth, there was no telling who disturbed whose border first and after a won or lost battle, nobody would really ask who started. It was an eternal rule of war that the loser would be blamed for its inception.

At Soignies-junction they turned slightly East, leaving the road behind to gallop through open country side. There were small farms on the side, fields, small woods.

It was picturesque, but still too lively.

"We will find few traces with all the folk going around," Wharton muttered darkly.

Boyd grimaced in response, spotting yet another number of people standing near a small assortment of trees. It was barely a grove, no more than twenty or thirty trees, but something in it had alerted the people a great deal. They were hectically gesticulating and talking amongst themselves, pacing in circles, but somehow strangely undecided on what to do.

A sinking feeling settled in the guts of all three soldiers. Those people's behaviour was fairly typical.

The corpse they came across was not old, a few hours maximum. There was no sign of decomposition yet, the body stiff. Lying on his front, the man's hands were still bound on his back. The entry wound of the bullet was small, showing only minor outward blood loss. They did not need an elaborate analysis to know that it had been one shot to the heart from a short distance.

The man's eyes were also still covered by a cloth and upon turning him around, his right cheek showed a significant wound.

The three Englishmen exchanged a glance. The pattern was already familiar.

Asking the previously nervous and now very curious people standing around provided little information. Even though the victim, by the looks of his clothes a trader with at least English connections, had been shot in broad daylight, nobody had seen or heard anything.

With the armies practicing and the rich and important coming out from Brussels to hunt, there were so many guns fired that it was easy to miss one single shot. And with all the people around, who looked at a trader who was conversing or possibly arguing with a customer?

It sounded all very logical and all very obvious, yet it was a source of deep frustration.

Sending the locals away, Boyd crouched down next to the corpse and Wharton. "What can you tell me, Wharton?"

The Lieutenant shrugged. "The face wound is the same as with the others. It is something heavy with strong edges, but not big."

"What do you think it is?" Jordan asked crouching down as well.

"From the size, I would venture to say it is not a special weapon, rather something the person hitting has on his hand. That points to a ring."

"A ring doing such damage?" Jordan was doubtful.

"Signet rings have very strong edges and delicately carved patterns on them. The stones can be quite heavy too."

"The blow was dealt by a man?" Even though he was already convinced of it, Boyd voiced the question.

"Yes."

They all nodded in acknowledgement.

"Anything else?" Boyd asked as he made to get up.

"As a matter of fact, there is." Wharton grimaced at seeing Boyd's expression, but the Captain did not say anything and returned to his crouching position. The other two men swallowed their light smirks when they heard his joints pop. Age was catching up it seems.

"What?"

"Remember what I said about the pistol being expensive and quite rare? It's a dueling pistol. One shot only. The ammunition is especially prepared for every single shot. This one is much too light for a regular shot. Short distance, no chance of going through the body. It is supposed to become lodged in the body, the heart if possible. From no further than five yards away."

"So, what is this then?" Boyd gave the other man a long look. "An execution?"

Wharton nodded.

* * *

><p>The dead man turned out to be English, at least if the papers found with the body indeed belonged to this man. He had been working for a wool merchant in the North, supplying the Allied armies with cloth for uniforms and tents. On first sight, that did not look too important, but it fit the picture that was developing. Besides a few actual soldiers, the victims so far had been traders or employees of traders that supplied the Allies, especially the English, with weapons, weapon materials, food, boots.<p>

In addition, over the last weeks three supply depots between Brussels and Ostend had been raided and emptied by unknown persons.

Granted, one of the first things Boyd and his men had noticed - and reported - was the fact that the depots had been poorly protected. Almost everybody who wanted, could walk in and take things out. There were no guards, not control system in place.

On their ride this morning, they had noted with pleasure that at least the guards' situation had been rectified. It would make things a little more difficult for Jean le Pilleur and his men and that was a small mercy.

At the moment, however, they could only follow him by traces he left, which put them hours, if not days behind him. There was no rhyme or reason to his attacks. Any English soldier or trader could become a victim at any place in a 30 mile radius from the French border. The odds were not in their favour and Boyd did not like that fact one bit.

Therefore, his mood did not exactly improve as he got up from giving the dead man a closer look. They would have to build a travois to carry the man to the encampment, where he would be buried and information about him sent to England.

Turning, neither Boyd nor Jordan made much effort to swallow their curses as they rushed towards their horses and slammed themselves against the person going through their saddle bags.

The person struggled valiantly, but was no match against the combined strength of two grown men. It took only a few moments, until they had him subdued and could take a good look.

It was a boy, barely older than 13, but his face already spoke of experience and hardship. His shaggy hair was mutt-coloured, his eyes a hazel that stopped Boyd short. Defiant to the last, the lad still struggled, though it made little difference. In his eyes there was a fire, a clear message that he was bowing to higher powers but not giving up.

Luke had been the same way. Which had led to him running off at 15 and joining the army.

And eventually to Salamanca.

And a non-descript, hand-carved wooden cross on top of a small mount of stones.

"Who are you?" Jordan took over with the harsh question, wondering at, but not stopped by, his superior's hesitation.

The lad did not answer, instead struggled further, looking as if he would spit out any second. That sent Boyd into action, who pulled the lad up and pushed him against his horse.

"We asked you a question. Who are you?" he asked quietly.

Once again, the lad kept silent and stared at him defiantly.

Boyd repeated the question in French. There was a short glimmer of amusement in the boy's eyes at the heavy English accent, to which Boyd replied with a rueful smile. Languages had never been his forte, a real set-back in his line of tasks.

"Emile," the lad finally answered, proving that he was probably younger than he looked.

"Why were you going through our things?" Jordan entered the conversation again, pushing himself into the boy's line of sight. He recoiled slightly, making the horse behind him neigh. "Stealing is capital crime," Jordan pushed further. "It could get you hung."

From his wide, fearful eyes, it was obvious that the boy understood at least this much English, if not more. His struggles once again became more pronounced and Boyd had to put in quite a bit of effort to keep the lad where he was.

Wharton, having finished his examination of the dead body, stepped closer as well. "Will we get him hung, Boyd?" he asked sardonically.

He hesitated for a moment, but then Boyd shook his head. "No. He did not steal anything...yet. The young man was either a little too careless or a little too daring, I believe." There was a minute smile on his face, but it disappeared instantly. "I also believe that young Emile will be much more useful to us, if he is alive and well and gets paid for his efforts."

He could see that his men were not completely convinced, but they deferred to his higher rank, as he pulled out a small pouch, tingling with coins inside. Holding them out, Boyd gave the boy a smile. "This is for you, Emile. A small payment in advance."

Emile eyed the pouch speculatively, then grabbed and put it away with the speed any pickpocket would be proud of. "What shall I do?" he asked in his heavily accented brogue.

"We are looking for information on Jean le Pilleur."

The boy's eyes widened, an expression of unease covering his face before he could control it. His voice betrayed nothing, though. "Big man. Many look."

It made Boyd smile, how nonchalantly that came out. His son tended to say things like this too. Always claiming that it didn't bother at all.

"We are encamped at Enghien. Any information, anything you hear, you will tell us."

_tbc_

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	5. June 6th  Pt II

A/N: Thank you you very much to those of you who read - and actually take the time to drop me a little comment. It boosts my enthusiasm incredibly much. So, thank you for that. I love writing this story and have actually reached a milestone with it, so in celebration, here we go with the next chapter. Enjoy!

Thank you - as always - goes to the Olympic team. You know what for.

* * *

><p><strong>June 6th, 1815 - part II<strong>

It was a good thing that the weather was fair that day and that there was a good amount of wind blowing through the shrubbery and across the meadows. The two women, stepping back out into the open, greedily gulped down the fresh air.

They did not say anything as they took a few exhausted steps away from the hut behind them. Both rubbed weary hands over their equally weary faces. That left smudges of blood and other bodily fluids on their skin, but they did not notice. They also took no notice of the fact that the front of their dresses were stained with blood and fluids too, in addition to smudges of dirt and ash.

They slowly wandered over to the fence that only pitifully protected the small homestead.

From a few yards away, children's faces, frightened and uneasy in the presence of the two strangers, kept a close watch on their movements.

It was a strange situation to be observed so closely, but compared to the inside of the hut, it was a piece of heaven.

Heaving a sigh, the older of the two women turned to her companion. "You did incredibly well in there, my dear."

The other blushed, but it was only visible, because of her incredibly pale complexion.

"So did you," she ventured after a while. "It is hardly the kind of work you are used to or should be doing."

"Needlework is not a helpful occupation in such a situation." They shared a quick sardonic smile. "She would have died without our help."

The younger nodded again. "I know. That is number 16 and I do not think she will survive another one."

Before the two women could continue, another rushed towards them. Young, barely in her twenties, her red hair short and tousled. Though there was an accent, she spoke English fairly well, but it was hard to understand as she quickly blubbered away her thanks.

"My mother...thank you. Thank you."

"You are very welcome. We were glad to help," the younger soothingly replied, but it had little effect.

"Well, Eve, I do believe you will just have to accept the praise. You make a very good midwife."

"Thank you, my lady," the woman named Eve replied, a small impish smile on her face.

"Oui, Madame," the daughter of the house agreed, nodding her head vigorously. "You saved my mother. You and the lady. My mother and my little sister. I did not know what to do any more and my father is not good at delivering babies."

The women chuckled slightly, thinking of the coarse looking man, who had had looked at his wife with tears in his eyes as she struggled and screamed through her pains, but had barely been able to keep a hold of the youngest children sitting beside him or crawling around his feet. He had looked uncomfortable holding the youngest while they had been cleaning up the mother and had tried to ease her pains.

"My mother...she wants to thank you too, my lady," the girl continued urgently, somehow appearing as if she did not yet believe their good fortune.

"Grace. Just Grace," the oldest woman replied, placing a soothing hand on the girl's arm. It was as much a gesture of humility and soothing as it was pragmatic. The less people knew her identity the better. She was not here in this country at such a time to participate in the activities of the ton. The less she was recognised, the easier she could follow her plans. Nobody would talk to a lady.

For a moment the girl looked as if she would deny the mere notion on principle, but she kept silent and finally nodded. When Grace extended her hand, she carefully took and shook it. Eve, who had stood by and watched with interest, placed her hand on top and squeezed, thus sealing the pact.

"Stella!" From the door of the hut the voice of a boy, no older than eight came, springing the three women back into action and turning their attention to the situation at hand.

* * *

><p>Dusk was settling by the time they finally left the hut. The scent of blood and sweat and other excrements, the smells of cooking dinner and all of that mixed with the closeness of the family's most prized possessions - its animals - it had been a overwhelming thing.<p>

Tending to the many children, to the mother, bringing food to the table and somehow trying to clean the place up had taken all afternoon.

The worst thing, though, was that now...they could leave.

The women exchanged a look, thinking that it had been nothing but a coincidence that this life was not theirs.

Yet the family had shared the little they had, the children had hung onto them and beamed with open trust and joy at their presence. Holding the little ones, Grace had fought tears, remembering long past moments, when her children had been little and were not yet caught in the need to appear prim and proper as society dictated. The short years when they had just been children and she had just been their mother. At least in private.

These days, she barely recognised her daughters as such, proper young ladies who had built a wall of 'acceptable behaviour' around them and thus barely allowed even a short touch of their mother's. And her son...her little boy...

She swallowed.

Better not dwell on it.

Heaving a sigh, she stepped forward, knowing that Eve and she better find their shelter for the night before it became completely dark. It was not safe to use the cover of the night. One of the family's sons had brought the news of yet another dead mean in the area. Another one shot.

The lad had also spoken of English soldiers looking for the culprit.

It was not exactly helpful to their own quest. If English soldiers asked questions...her French was good, but it was not without accent. She would easily be recognised, no matter how much she tried to disguise their appearance.

"Madame." The man of the house carefully spoke to them, and while they noticed just how difficult the man found it to express himself, she fully appreciated the effort.

Giving him an encouraging smile that brought a smile to the man's face, she nodded. "Oui?"

His words were halting, his English rusty, but his advice sounded very well thought through.

"Find English soldier! They all in camps here... Alone and lonely and afraid. Look for comfort. All soldiers do."

Both Grace and Eve shook their heads, not sure what he was getting at.

He gestured helplessly, trying to make them understand, but finally turned to his oldest daughter, rasping the words out she should express in more refined English.

Stella blushed as she heard the words, then held her hands up in a sudden gesture of denial, but her father obviously insisted.

"He says," she finally ventured, still blushing furiously. "That you need to find an English soldier, an officer and...uhm...give him...comfort."

"I do not understand," Eve replied with a look at her lady, who seemed equally baffled.

"Papa says that you are pretty women and English soldiers think they are so great and if a woman is pretty and nice to them, they tell everything. He says, you go and..."

"...Seduce an officer somewhere in the English encampment and hope he will know enough to help our plans along," Grace finished, her voice only a bit sarcastic.

"My lady!" Eve started, though it lacked real fire. "You are not..._such_...a woman!"

Once again, Stella blushed, embarrassed to follow this thought. "Papa says that it is the easiest way...and the safest. An officer could also protect you, when the battle comes."

Her ladyship was silent, contemplating the advice. Her face, usually full of emotion and thoughts, was pale and enigmatic.

Then she turned towards Stella and her father. "_Merci__ beaucoup pour votre conseil_."

Giving them a weary smile and waving goodbye, she pulled a non-plussed Eve along with her.

* * *

><p>His perch behind the hut was a surprisingly good hideaway. It allowed him to hear everything that was spoken, but not be seen at the same time. It was a risky spot with all the children running around, but so far luck had held out.<p>

Why he had come here, he did not know.

Seeing the hut, there had been the distinct option of asking for shelter or food, or if it was not given freely, taking it by force. Those were hard times and you could not keep up regard for other people's plight. It was eye for an eye and there were enough people who shot you before you could draw your sabre to defend yourself.

No, he would survive.

Part of that was to hide behind walls and listen in on other people's words.

The farmer's words, halting as they came, were wise. He was a veteran, obviously, experienced in the ways of the encampments. His advice for the women was sound. If they heeded, they'd survive and gain what they sought.

He allowed himself a small smile, wondering if the two women would be brave enough and whom they would seek.

One of them sounded quite offended and for a moment he pitied her. She would have a lot to learn.

Then the other spoke and for an instant, he thought his heart would stop beating. In a wild gesture he pushed away from the wall, ready to jump out of his hiding place and rush forward.

He knew that voice.

He knew that voice so very well.

Breathing heavily he stood like a statue for a moment, then using all his willpower ducked back into the shadow.

From his place he could see the women walk by towards the line of trees on the other side of the fence. Their gaits were heavy, exhausted and his heart began to burn again, fighting all instincts to follow them.

But now was not the time.

That would only come, once he had killed.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	6. June 8th Pt I

A/N: In this chapter, Boyd's heading for trouble, as he is wont to do. Enjoy! Many, many thanks go out to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta.

**Enjoy!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>June 8th, 1815<br>**

The day of June 8th, 1815, was non-descript as such. Weatherwise there were spots of rain, clouds and sunny spells. It was also moderately warm. Landscapes all over Europe were in full bloom and the green of early summer. None of them knew or even cared what its political and thus territorial fate would be. In most cases, not even the people living on these landscapes cared much. They were too busy farming the land, in the hopes of bringing in a good and peaceful harvest.

There had not been many of those in the last twenty years.

The farmers, lumberjacks, coal miners, and fishermen of Europe went about their business and none of them was aware that this day would have far-reaching and long-standing political consequences.

It was not yet the end of the grand "Meet and Greet" that had taken place in Vienna for the last seven months, but the events of the day pointed in the direction where the continent would go. The Confederation Act of the German States, signed that day, did away with most of the 'wrong-doings' of Napoleon's empire and firmly re-established authoritarian monarchical rule. The revolution had never happened. At least not in the German states.

The feared Emperor of the French might have registered the development with a shake of his head, if he had found the time to even acknowledge such a fact. There were, after all, more important things to consider.

Most importantly, waging war.

And war is the father of all things.

The Corse knew that very well, as did his counterparts in and around Brussels.

The Prussian troops were reviewed that day and found to be only half-satisfactory by Field Marshall Blcher. At least, though, they were in better shape than the English troops which were slowly but surely gathering in a line South to South-East of the city. The Duke of Wellington seemed to be simply unable to bring his diverse troops into any satisfactory order.

That is not to say that there were no regiments showing great potential and expertise.

The 11th Light Dragoons were one of them as they went through the motions of the general morning drill, practising attacks on Infantry batteries. The key factor of success, guiding the horses away from the long French swords while at the same time moving into position to strike with the shorter British swords, was beginning to take acceptable shape and Colonels Christie and Money received the reports with somewhat less tense shoulders.

One of the last men to report his squadron's progress was Captain Boyd and seeing the man's closed off expression, Christie did not doubt that Boyd was much less satisfied with the progress than any other of his colleagues. The Captain was known as a slave driver, often garnering fear and not a little derision, but his squadron was closer to its original strength than any other in the regiment.

Boyd saluted precisely, the picture of the perfect Dragoon officer. Despite having spent all morning in the saddle, his field uniform was perfectly applied, no button or thread missing. It gave Col. Christie a bit of a sardonic pleasure to imagine just how perfect Boyd would have fitted as a staff officer, if only he would have had the temper for it.

Alas, he was better where he was.

Duty done, Christie waved the other man over, quietly conversing as they guided their horses back to Boyd's squadron.

"There has been word from the Duke's headquarters that we will receive a courier later today, wanting an update on our...delicate...situation," Christie said quietly, while eyeing the dispersing troops. Here on the training grounds it was almost all British men and their horses, but the spectators of any nationality, men and women alike, were not far off.

"Yes, sir," Boyd intoned without giving anything away.

"What are you going to tell him?"

The Captain allowed a minute smile to flit around the corners of his mouth. "I believe I will quite possibly tell him what I am telling you, sir."

Christie sighed, his own smile much more pronounced. "Your disregard for polite manners will be the end of your career one day, Boyd. High ranking men want to be flattered."

"I am certain they want me to resolve this problem even more than me smiling politely and talking meaningless niceties." Boyd did sound polite, but his companion knew from experience that he would have no qualms about shouting his opinion, even to the Duke himself, if necessary.

"But do you have at least a lead in, Boyd? Time is of importance in this," the Col. implored.

Turning his horse slightly away, Boyd nodded over his shoulder. "I do, sir."

With that he guided his horse into a canter, leaving Christie and Lt. Wharton to transport the squadron back to their tents.

* * *

><p>Using the shadow of a tree to give some privacy to their meeting, Boyd eyed the lad with an expectant frown. The last two days, possibly the knowledge of his own importance had improved young Emile's countenance greatly. There was a jaunty smile on his face as he admired the horse, but there was also a certain speculation in his gaze that Boyd took notice of.<p>

He knew it would do him well not to trust the boy too much. If somebody paid a higher sum, the lad would gladly sell his services elsewhere. In the current situation, he could hardly blame him, but the sad aspect of his 'business' was that he needed to cover his back. Surely, young Emile was aware that should he be caught...

"Do you have anything for me?" he asked authoritatively.

"Nice horse. Different from two days ago," the lad said instead. "Better horse, this."

Boyd growled impatiently. "I did not ask your opinion on the quality of my horses..."

The lad shrugged and grinned. "Better for battle."

"I have not asked for your doubtlessly educated judgment, Emile!" Sensing that offending the lad would not get him much further, Boyd held back. His earlier thoughts returned. The lad had lived through quite a lot in his 13 or 14 years. This was no innocent child, but a hardened survivor already. He would not be easily cowed, but almost certainly seek out different 'employment' if he was not satisfied with his treatment.

And there were many people around who _would employ_.

"But thank you for your compliment. I am sure Arast appreciates it."

"His name?" the boy asked with a gesture of his head and a voice that suddenly betrayed his young years.

The captain smiled and gave the horse an affectionate pet on the neck. "Yes. He has been with me since Spain."

Emile gave a quick smile, his hand darting out involuntarily.

"Your family does not own horses?"

The boy shook his head, his hand dropping to his side.

Sensing the touchy subject, Boyd reverted to his earlier questioning again. "Do you have any information for me?"

This time there was a look of sincerity on the boy's face, showing that he was willing to do his part.

"And?" Boyd pressed, his earlier impatience reasserting itself, not only through the need to know but also through a certain amount of excitement. This was it what drove him, finding a trail and getting onto it to find more. No training exercise, no battle drum calling could give him that satisfaction - not even the rush of a willing and writhing woman in his arms.

The lad gave him a long look, as if contemplating how to word things. "There are barns, five, maybe more. Most in France."

"Are they meeting points?" he pressed, but the boy shrugged.

"Sometimes. Storage more."

"Do you know where?"

Emile shrugged again. "Only one..."

"...And you can show me the way," Boyd insisted.

"Tonight," the lad promised, but he was not easy with it.

"What is it?" At once concerned, the older man tentatively reached out, but in the end refrained from touching.

"They shoot on sight!"

"Have you seen them? Jean le Pilleur himself?"

This time the boy shook his head vehemently. "Nobody saw Jean, just his men. They shoot on sight!"

* * *

><p>Cornet Jordan took careful note of his surroundings, even though to the casual eye his posture was relaxed to the point of sleepiness. There was a lazy air about him - a soldier resting after the day's exercises.<p>

The picture deceived.

Jordan might have looked half-asleep, but as his eyes wandered subtly, his mind collected all the information they found, catalogued faces, movements and postures of people. His mind was at work constantly, a habit that he had carried all his life, but distinctively improved through his acquaintance with Captain Boyd.

They had met at Burgos, mere days after Boyd had found out that his son had been amongst the fallen at Salamanca. Most of those days were a hazy memory, but there were flashes of pulling the older man away from a sword and out of Infantry fire during their retreat. They had been - not friends, because a lowly, coloured Cornet could hardly be friends with a highly decorated Captain who was related to one of the Generals - allies and colleagues ever since.

Jordan stuck around and Boyd had picked up on and made use of the younger man's skill.

It was still a trying association at times, the Captain the furthest imaginable from pleasant and polite company, but they were successful. Jordan found he appreciated the other man's gruff, but honestly respectful attitude.

Respect was to be earned and thus the Cornet kept his eyes skinned, even though it might not look it. The openness of the encampment could easily prove to be a problem, he was fully aware of that. Everybody could enter and leave at will with no control as to what they wanted, had done and taken with them. There were women swarming the place and though Jordan was not above appreciative looks and the occasional scratch of his itch, from the intelligence point of view, they were a danger.

The Lieutenant who was paying them a visit and was currently ensconced in the tent behind Jordan had immediately remarked on it, driving Lt. Wharton's temper to a boil. Of course, Lt. Worrall was sitting warm and safe on his arse in Brussels, firmly established in Col. Grant's office. He would not have to risk his hide and could well pontificate about safety and intelligence theft.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Boyd march towards the tent, his steps as usual brisk and his posture unapproachable. For a moment Jordan wondered if that was a requirement if you rose through the ranks, but since the brashness was something rather unique to Boyd, the thought was quickly discarded.

"Any news?" the Captain asked quietly, though the way he held himself did not tell. Instead, Jordan quickly jumped to his feet, giving the impression to all the world that he had just been reprimanded for his lack of attention.

"Nothing for us," he whispered through clenched teeth as he went through a sharp salute. Loudly, he announced, "Lt. Worrall has come from Brussels with a message from command, sir!"

Boyd nodded sharply in acknowledgement and unceremoniously entered the tent, Cornet Jordan at his heels.

Inside, both Lieutenants jumped to their feet and snapped to attention.

"At ease," Boyd ordered. Without allowing the two men to follow his order, he continued, "I assume that Lt. Wharton has already informed you about our findings so far."

The Lieutenant nodded, his curly hair flying. "Your newest findings corroborate our theories, Captain Boyd, but they do not get us a step further in capturing Jean le Pilleur."

The older man smiled, but it was not a friendly gesture. "I am aware of the constraints of time we are facing, Lieutenant. I am certain you are also aware that I can hardly enter a tavern in the vicinity to ask for Monsieur le Pilleur and be led to him where he will happily comply to be taken into custody." All signs of politeness fell, giving both Boyd's expression and tone a hard edge. "The wounds on the victims, as well as the method of killing, show le Pilleur to be a man of considerable violence, but also of considerable knowledge of the area. They also show his deep insight into the workings of His Majesty's army."

"You do assume that we are dealing with an Englishman, then? A deserter, quite possibly?" Worrall had come to attention, his voice showing the appropriate respect for a superior officer and expert.

Boyd nodded. "It does look like a strong possibility."

"Lt. Wharton mentioned that the face wound could come from a signet ring. A wealthy man then?"

"Or a stolen ring," Wharton interrupted.

Worrall nodded. "What do you believe to be the truth, sir?"

It was on Boyd to shrug. Though he felt more inclined to follow one line of thought, he could not just discard the other. "We will need to investigate further before I can give a final answer."

The Lieutenant nodded. "I will report your findings to Col. Grant. Is there anything else you wish me to relate to the Colonel?"

With a shake of the head and a salute, the messenger was dismissed and left the tent.

For a few minutes there was silence, before Boyd turned to his companions and gave them a long look. "Young Emile has brought some information. I will need clothes to disguise myself when I ride out tonight."

* * *

><p>The jacket felt a little strange and was definitely tailored for a man not as broad in the shoulders as he was. The fabric and seams chafed and inhibited his movements, and he would have given a month's pay to be rid of it.<p>

He was without his horse, following Emile through shrubbery and undergrowth, and even though there were no markers on the landscape, he assumed that they had already crossed the French border. Wearing a French uniform jacket, even though it was an artillery one, seemed the safest option.

Boyd had to give it to the lad, he moved with the stealth of an experienced scout, avoiding open fields and roads, but never moving too deep into the thickets. They were not seen, they were barely heard, and there would be little trace left of their trek.

Still, they had been on the road for close to an hour now, darkness having fallen later than that, and Boyd was beginning to feel a little anxious. Should they run into trouble, his dagger and pistol would prove meagre weapons of defence and while a little bit of luck was always necessary in this, he did not feel overly optimistic.

"How far yet?" he whispered, but the boy did not listen. Instead, he pulled him through yet another shrub, rushing faster than before.

Boyd had no choice but to follow and quicken his step, which was slowly but surely turning into a much bigger problem.

As they finally came to a stop, Boyd had to firmly remind himself not to gasp for breath, feeling more winded than he liked to feel. If that was what old age felt like, then he would have to do something about it, and quickly.

Giving Emile a questioning look, he found the lad to be listening closely. There were noises, only a few feet away, but through the undergrowth they could not exactly see it. The lad pointed in this direction, his eyes wide with fear.

The captain understood the expression, a knot forming in his stomach.

He could not make out any words over the wind and the whisper of the leaves, but it was fairly obvious that the voices were French. They moved away after a minute, towards the direction Emile had pointed earlier.

Moving quietly, Boyd made for this direction, careful not to step on any twigs or upset too many leaves. It was pitch-black now, the moon mostly covered by the canopy of trees above him.

If he made one mistake...

There were more shrubs ahead of him, though somehow he was fairly certain that on the other side there would be free territory. Open fields, open sight, being a clear target.

Danger was close, Boyd could feel it sing in his body, welcomed the rush.

Looking over his shoulder for his young companion, Boyd noted with a pang that young Emile had disappeared, either from fear or by mistake, or even design, he could not be sure. And now was not the time to question it.

Carefully, he crept forward, gently bending branches and searching for noiseless footings. It was slow progress, every step seemingly taking hours.

Every nerve was on edge, every sense heightened. Even the smallest noise could shout disaster. The sudden click of a pistol spanner heralding his death.

Despite the French uniform jacket, he was not exactly safe.

As expected, Boyd suddenly found himself on the edge of a path, a small one for sure, but it was still a good five feet wide. Enough so that horses could pass through and, despite the darkness, the trails of hooves were obvious. They were all leading in one direction and Boyd did not hesitate to follow.

Being alone as he was, this was nothing short of reckless, but a man had to live up to his reputation, did he not? Even if it cost him his head.

It should not have surprised him, and in the still of the night, voices certainly carried, but those suddenly behind him still came as a shock. Self-preservation on highest degree, he looked for a place to hide - a ditch, a shrubbery cave, a broad tree - but there was nothing. Nothing that would not show immediately that he had been there.

His heart hammering in his chest, Boyd marched on, hoping that his disguise would help him. He knew, though, that it would not last, not if they demanded him to speak, for his French was sketchy at best, at worst showing a strong English accent.

What annoyed him most, though, was the fact that it had to happen so early, without any achievement on his side.

The voices came closer, as did the sound of their horses.

As dark as it was, it would only be seconds before they, for at least two if not three horses could be heard, would have him in clean sight. Even though he was walking almost in the shrubbery, as close as he had pressed himself to the foliage. Just a few more steps...

Suddenly a hand shot out and though it was no match for his bulk, it was the effect of surprise that made him topple through the branches and into the bush.

_tbc_

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	7. June 8th Pt II

A/N: As I promised - we have an update! And it's an update with a little action, a lot of running...and...some illicit behaviour. Oh, and Boyd Boyd gets his shirt torn off - which I state here as a warning. I'd also like to thank **ShadowSamurai83** for the beta again. I can't say how much it meaans and helps! hugs

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 15, later<strong>

Disorientation was the first thing he felt, the hand out of nowhere too big a shock. The second thing was the instinct to fight against the attacker. But he could not see anything, only feel the branches of the large shrub almost burying him alive, shielding him from all human eyes.

He could hear the horses, smell them even. They were so close, barely three feet away, and for a flash, it all felt unreal, as if he was exposed by a blinding light as the horses whinnied and made the whole world look at him.

He swayed, the branches following his every move. Suddenly, though, the hand from earlier was there again, though he could nt be sure whether it had ever left, and tightened its grip.

His physical balance was restored, but the same could not be said for his mental one. His heart was beating in his throat, blood pounding in his ears. Whose hand was this? And where were the three riders?

The sound of hooves had disappeared, he realized after a moment, but the same could not be said for the voices. They three men had stopped just a few feet from where he was hiding and with their words now much easier to understand, Boyd felt his heart rate increase.

This was a French patrol, looking for English soldiers, anybody who could be classified as a spy.

_"_Je suis sûr d'avoir vu quelqu'un_."_

And they were looking for him.

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><p>Boyd did not have much time to contemplate the beginner's mistakes he must have made, because suddenly he felt himself being tugged away from his spot and deeper into the undergrowth.<p>

Above him the leaves were moving and whispering in the wind, providing the perfect cover to carefully move away. Whoever it was knew a thing or two about disappearing quietly. The thought brought him back to Emile. Maybe the lad had followed him despite his initial fear. He could not be certain, though, and the thought made him nervous. Maybe he was walking straight into a trap?

All he could do for the moment was to follow and pray.

Their movements were swift and meandering, branches hitting their faces, some of them leaving minuscule cuts, which stung painfully. The scars would be visible in the morning, paying testament to his nightly adventure. Still they moved, silently and as quickly as possible, deeper and deeper into the forest.

He still didn't know who it was with him, but judging from the hand which was now holding his and pulling him along, he wasn't in the company of a man. He also doubted that it was Emile, the hand holding his much too soft and too small.

"Qui êtes-vous?" he gasped out as they came to an abrupt stop in a small meadow. They couldn't make out much, just silhouettes, but his companion seemed to believe that this was good shelter.

As his eyes adjusted, Boyd found his suspicions confirmed.

His saviour was a woman.

"Qui êtes-vous?" he repeated.

The woman turned, her posture showing that answering was a low priority. Silence stretched for a moment, which made Boyd's impatience rise.

"L'uniforme ne vous aidera pas si vous n'améliorez pas votre accent," she finally said in a whisper, her voice low and husky.

Before he could protest, which he wanted to do on principle, the woman had pressed herself against him and covered his mouth with her hand.

Silently she shook her head, her eyes wide and besieging.

He did not know what it was, but something silenced him immediately.

The world was suddenly shrunk to just the two of them, to the way her body was pressed against his, the dress doing little to conceal her female form. His blood began pounding in his ears, his body reacting instinctively to her touch.

He felt enveloped by her body, by the warmth and fragrance emanating from her, lured into a web. More than that, though, there was something in her eyes that told him stories of wonders previously unknown and mysterious yet to uncover.

It was compelling, overwhelming, and ever so addictive.

The moment elongated, holding them both until the woman shook herself and, taking his hand again, pulled them both away from the spot.

Again they hurried through bushes and between trees with seemingly no direction.

With the fauna suddenly attacking him again, Boyd found his equilibrium.

"Where are we going?" he hissed quietly, giving up on the French pretence altogether. It was pointless with this woman.

She did not answer, just quickened their steps.

* * *

><p>It might have been minutes, maybe hours they ran. At least it seemed that way to Boyd. She was not a young woman, her eyes had been too wise and too deep for that, but their rush did not seemed to bother her. Much.<p>

That changed when she almost doubled over as they reached open space again. Instinctively, he moved to hold her, the earlier feeling rushing back as her body once again pressed against his.

He could feel her tense and immediately understood why.

There was a campfire in front of a barn. Several men, all of them armed, sat and walked around it.

None of them wore an uniform.

Boyd's pulse rate spiked, realizing that they had stumbled upon a camp of marauders, possibly Jean le Pilleur. There were crates and barrels next to the barn and though he could not really discern it from this distance, he would have been willing to bet that those held British supplies.

His first instinct was it to charge instantly, but before he could completely form the thought, the woman tensed and warily moved backwards. Logical thought reasserted itself, making Boyd move along, aware that staying would be suicide.

Almost noiselessly they went backwards, the protecting darkness only steps away.

The click of a gun made his blood run cold and he closed his eyes for a moment.

On the grass, the steps of the man, now pointing a gun at them, were almost inaudible. Except for the low tingling of some chain, death seemed to meet them silently. For a quick, insane moment, Boyd regretted that he had not even found out the colour of her eyes, but it lasted no longer than that.

It was not the first time he stood in the face of a gun, not the first time he was on level with his death, but by God, it would not be the last!

His senses sharpened again, calculating the position from which their attacker came. In his mind, strategies rushed over each other. If their attacker was alone...

They had only the blink of an eye for a chance and later on, Boyd would not be able to give a more detailed information of the man than that he had been tall, fairly lanky and with dark hair. That was it.

The man came into his vision, the pistol in his right hand, and Boyd moved instantly. With one arm, he pushed the gun away, landing a punch with his other.

Surprised by the sudden attack, the other man went down to his knees, disoriented for the moment.

Not waiting for him to recover, they turned and ran again.

* * *

><p>"Whoever said that sports was healthy for you lied."<p>

Boyd chuckled slightly, still catching his breath.

They had run again for an undetermined time, always fearing that a shot would ring out and fell one or the both of them.

The moon had risen up and was already on its downward move again as they finally reached a quiet place, a hut filled with stacks of straw.

He was lying back now, his whole body hurting more than after a week in the saddle.

The straw was powerfully fragrant beneath him, but softer than anything he had ever known. Next to him the woman sat, her knees drawn up and her head carefully placed on top of them. She was breathing heavily as well, her entire body shaking, both from the exertion and from the cold that was settling over the open land.

Ignoring his protesting body, Boyd rose chivalrously and placed his jacket around her shoulders. His hands stayed there, at first vigorously trying to bring warmth back into her. But something changed. It had little to do with the situation, little to do with the excitement of almost meeting your death, and everything with her.

She smiled slightly, just as aware as he was.

Their eyes connected once again, intensity building quickly. And he was still rubbing her shoulders and arms, though by now it was a caress, more than anything.

She lowered her eyes for a moment in a gesture of bashfulness, but when she looked at him again, all shyness or reserve was gone.

His hands moved further, never leaving her body, as his fingers traced the skin at the neckline of her dress. The other moved down, over her side, then waist, and down her legs, only to make the reverse trek underneath her skirts.

She did not resist. The colour of her eyes deepened, darkened, and though he couldn't be entirely sure, he would have sworn that they were like sapphires now.

Boyd felt the tension in her frame, knew it was reciprocated in his. They were falling headlong into this, but he had no doubt that he wanted it. He wanted this woman, and he wanted her now.

Her hand came up to cup his cheek, the touch at once electric. Her thumb brushed over his nose and then his mouth. Instinctively, he kissed, then nipped it.

The answering hitch of her breath was all the encouragement he needed. Within seconds she was writhing beneath him, her quiet gasps and moans driving him on as he pulled her dress from her body.

Meekness or submission was not in her, just as he had known, when she pushed and pulled, and finally tore his shirt open. As her hands splayed over his chest, he groaned into the night, the sound silenced by the aggressive kiss she gave him.

Feverishly they kissed, grasped and touched, her nails leaving deep indentions in his back and shoulder.

When he finally thrust into her body for the first time, an unarticulated growl ripped from his throat and he did not care who heard it.

* * *

><p><em>Translations:<em>

_- Je suis sûr d'avoir vu quelqu'un. - I am sure I saw someone._

_- Qui êtes-vous? = Who are you?_

_- L'uniforme ne vous aidera pas si vous n'améliorez pas votre accent. = Your uniform won't help you along, if you can't improve your accent._

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	8. June 9th Pt I

A/N: This is the morning after the night before and in the pale light of the morning things aren't rosy as they seemed. Still, I hope you enjoy.

Many, many thanks go to **ShadowSamurai83** for the beta and the support.

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><p>IV - <strong>June 9th<strong>

In history books, this would be one of the most important dates of the time, remembered long after the people involved were reduced to dust. It was a landmark really, assuring that - apart from what could be considered minor skirmishes on the grand scale of things - peace would rule the continent.

The players were given their specific places and their specific scripts, and surprisingly they'd heed to them for close to a century. The Holy Alliance which became valid that day ensured that autocratic monarchical rule was once again established on the continent. For the island, it had never been in question anyway.

Once the emperors and kings and dukes and princes rose in Vienna, finished their morning sojourns and actually sat down to do the exhausting deed of signing their names under the necessary, pre-written documents and then retired to yet another ballroom for one of the grandest occasions yet, they considered their hard day's work duly done.

In silence they were relieved to put Vienna and all its excitement behind them. So were the Viennese, exhausted after seven months of constant work and partying. Most relieved of all was probably Francis I, who could now start to pray that his treasury had at least a little money left in it.

Unfortunately, and especially the Austrian emperor was only too aware of it, there was still a tiny problem. His son-in-law, at least officially for the time being, who was currently residing in the Tuileries and preparing for battle.

All these pretty words on the pretty papers would be worth naught should Napoleon prevail. Francis, building on over 500 years of dynastic history, knew that better than anyone. Treaties were not worth the paper they were written on, unless you could enforce the wishes you had written down in them. Violently, if necessary.

Still, this June day started bright and sunny in Vienna, and surprisingly in the Brabant province as well.

Therefore it was the sun that woke a rather stiff and sore Captain Peter Boyd this morning. His face was half buried in the straw that was his bed and half covered by an arm of his shirt.

The first moment of awakening was blissful, his body suspended in a soft and unworried place, his mind blissfully blank. Memory reasserted itself quickly, though, awareness coming first with the aching reminder of last night's extensive runs, then with a slight soreness he had not experienced for a while.

It made him smile, despite the discomfort, and he closed his eyes again for a minute, letting flashes of last night's events go by before his inner eye. He could still feel her skin against his, soft and fragrant. Warm and yet cooled by the night air rushing of sweat-slicked planes and curves. He could still feel her hands on him, her touch that was not at all timid or clumsy. He could still hear her voice, raspy and low as she spurred him on and lost herself in him.

His body reacted instinctively, eager for a repeat, but sensibility said that with the sun up, this was too dangerous an endeavour.

Still...

With a quiet groan, he raised his head, unwilling to wake her before he had a chance to really look at her, preferring the gentle, sensuous way he would not let anybody believe he was capable of. However, the space next to him was empty.

Pushing himself further up, Boyd groaned louder this time, strained and now cold muscles protesting against the movement.

The hut was small, obviously no more than a small storage space, a shed more than anything. It was filled, almost to the brim, with straw and a garden rake, but no more. And apart from himself, there was no other person in sight.

Carefully, Boyd got up and looked around the meadow the hut stood on. It was a fairly open space, but on three sides surrounded by dense forestry and shrubbery. The one obvious opening was rather small as well. It was a well chosen place, hidden and if necessary, easy to defend.

He was not sure whether they had ended here by coincidence or design, but it was a good spot for clandestine meetings. Safe, secluded, and even rather pretty.

Straining his ears, Boyd tried to make out where she, who he could hardly call 'the woman' any more, not after what they had shared the night before, was. He could not hear a thing. For all it was worth, he was alone.

Turning back to their impromptu bed, he made no attempt to swallow his curse. There were clear indentions where their bodies had lain, but that was it. The dagger he had put aside last night was gone. The French uniform jacket he had used to cover them both was gone too. A quick frantic grope proved that at least she had not taken the pistol, but the Medallion he always wore in honour of his mother...the little thief had taken that as well.

With a mighty roar of anger, Boyd kicked the wall of the hut.

How could he have been so unprecedentedly foolish? A first week cadet's mistake!

A pretty face, a willing body and he was robbed of clothes, weapon and the only monetary treasure he owned at the first opportunity. How grand for a decorated veteran and military investigator! And he wanted to find and arrest a hardened marauder?

It was laughable!

And the worst of it was that he had gone into this willingly, eagerly even. And that he would do it again, if she were here now.

Kicking the wall again, Boyd shook his head.

He was, without a doubt, a grand prize fool.

* * *

><p>The sun was slowly beginning to rise, but it was too low and too weak yet to warm the land. It would not take long, but for the moment, there was nothing to improve the man's mood.<p>

Boyd was cold, hungry and frustrated.

His own folly and naiveté churned angrily in his gut, acidly gripping him from inside. In his mind there was a constant rush from "What if?" to "How could you?"

Even though he had never given her his name, this woman would easily find out who he was. He did not doubt her shrewdness, she had already proved it by seducing him and then stealing half of his possessions from his very body. It would hardly be difficult for her to find out his name in the encampment.

His own options were far more limited, which proved his lack of sense even more. What did he know about her?

What really?

He could tell how her skin felt against his, how she touched him. He could say that her eyes displayed the most seductive intensity, but he could offer no exhaustive physical description, no name, could not even be completely certain that she was English.

Pushing the branches of a bush aside viciously, Boyd once again cursed himself.

Of all the stupid mistakes he had made in his life, and he would admit with a certain smugness that there were quite a few, this was not only embarrassing, it was unthinkable.

In one night of mindlessness, he had endangered his mission. More than that, he had endangered his army's chances of success in the upcoming battle. While he was not so vain to consider himself a very important man in the workings of the British forces, in his investigative works he had seen how such things developed.

One word, at the wrong time, in the wrong place, to the wrong person, and things developed a pace of their own from there. Life, especially in such a small territory as they constantly were, was a close network. In one way or the other, you encountered at least half of the population within days. And if this woman was not a French spy, who was to say she did not mention their encounter, fully believing that the information went nowhere, to somebody who was?

And if it was not any French spies, how about one from Jean le Pilleur's band of marauders?

If push came to shove, last night had been a glaring mistake. Though his body was telling him a very different story, in Boyd's mind there was no way around the fact.

The thought did not help any to improve his mood as he slowly trekked along the path, using the rising sun for directions. The leaves on the bushes were still dewy, delivering wet slaps on his still cold body.

A bit of professional calm began to reassert itself, though, as Boyd marched on. The shed where he had spent the night was of almost ideal location. Finding his way back to it could prove important in the future, if he wanted to use it...

He pushed the thought of meeting this woman again aside, firmly and angrily, trying to focus on landmarks. In the darkness of last night, and through their constant runs, he had not seen much, and even now he would have to firmly rely on trees and bushes, junctions in the paths and the sun.

There did not seem to be any settlements nearby. So far, and he had been on the road already for close to an hour, he had not even seen a proper farm. The land seemed to be almost empty of civilians. There had already been the odd patrol of French cavalry forcing him to hide deeper into the undergrowth.

It was a tedious trek back, slow, cold, hungry, and alone with his increasingly morose thoughts.

* * *

><p>The sound of hooves did not come as a surprise, but it was not a welcome one. Having to hide yet another time, though he was almost certain to have already crossed into Belgian territory, brought Boyd's temper to the boiling point. He could feel that, once the danger had passed, something was in mortal danger to suffer from his wrath - be it a tree, a bush, anything. Even better, though, would be somebody to yell at. Anybody would do.<p>

Focussed on the image of relief, of letting his temper go, he almost missed the voices.

It took a moment, but then he almost crumpled, his previous aggravation nearly forgotten.

"About time you got a move on," he declared, stepping back onto the path.

The two men on their horses shot around, hands automatically closing around their pistol and sabre respectively. Even under the circumstances, it amused Boyd, that Frank Wharton's instinctive move was for his gun and Spencer Jordan's for his sabre. They had joked about it before, Jordan's hang for old-fashioned things, while Wharton was always keen on the new, the modern things.

"Searching for a wayward Dragoon officer is not easy when he does not show himself in the appointed place at the appointed time and has not left word of his whereabouts," Wharton replied sardonically, though relief was visible on his face. Remembering his manners, he added a sharp, "Sir!"

Boyd grimaced, the folly of the past hours coming back to his mind. "Good thing that we do not know such an officer then, Lieutenant," he replied acidly.

Wharton swallowed his reply in surprise at the Captain's appearance and tone. It was not entirely clear which surprised him more, but this was his superior officer who, no matter how dishevelled he might look momentarily, commanded respect and submission.

"No, sir," he answered, turning his horse around so he could face Boyd properly.

Jordan, remaining silent in the face of his superior's morose mood, guided his mare forward in order to hand over the reins of Boyd's horse.

With a brisk gesture, the Captain accepted and mounted his horse. Only the long years of acquaintance and comradeship allowed the Cornet not to be offended, at least for the moment. However, he sensed that this was only the beginning of a few unpleasant hours, if not days.

Boyd had not volunteered any fact, but with keen eyes Jordan noticed a few things missing and, through the only haphazardly closed shirt, a few very telling scratches having appeared on his superior's chest.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	9. June 9th Pt II

**A/N: **This is for those of you who are still reading and enjoying. Shouty Boyd in a really bad mood and a secretive woman who plays him...like a fiddle. Enjoy!

Please take note that the rating is rising.**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>June 9th, later<strong>

As predicted, for all soldiers who were part of Captain Boyd's squadron, the day went from original form downhill. Their commander's mood was exceptionally unpleasant and in turn, each of his men suffered the consequences.

Though the Colonels had set up horse drill only and finished those by mid-day, Boyd's squadron was still at it as afternoon teatime approached. The horses were tired, the men were tired, but the Captain showed no sign of stopping any time soon.

His commands came sharp as a whip across the training ground, his face as clouded as if the battle was already afoot and they were losing. Almost two third of the squadron were already settled with punishment of any sort and it was only luck that Captain Boyd had not yet ordered the caning of his entire squadron on grounds of breathing.

His mood was sour at best and the squadron thought it advisable to just duck and do what he wished.

They went through the horse drill several times, until the horses were too tired and had to be rested. Fighting practice followed for several hours, until barely a man could still hold his weapons aloft. Now they were on basic drill, basic recruit's exercises that some of the men had gone through as long ago as Boyd himself.

They all grumbled, but none dared to show it, lest their commander thought it suitable they do it all night. Though not necessarily an unfair man, Boyd was a bastard at times and with the bee he had in his bonnet today, none of them was safe.

Even Jordan and Wharton, normally enjoying a lot more leeway than anybody, had already been shouted at, though they had escaped corporeal punishment and arrest so far.

It was Col. Christie who finally and personally ordered the exercises to be stopped for the day as they approached dinner time. He shook his head worriedly as the men dispersed exhaustedly. Most of them were too tired to even speak amongst themselves and complain, however quietly.

Boyd's face was still tense, fraught with annoyance and borderline aggression. Sorely tempted, Christie had refrained from asking, did so now. He had seen Boyd arrive, rather dishevelled, in the morning; had been the one to authorize Jordan and Wharton to go look for him, after the Captain had not returned from his nightly scouting.

Something had gone wrong, but Boyd showed no injury and the camp was not swarming with Frenchmen, so it could not exactly have been the scouting that went wrong.

Christie knew the other man well, ever since their beginnings in the army over twenty years ago, and though he would never voice it, Christie knew that it had to be something personal that had Boyd in such a mood.

Something had gotten under the other man's skin.

And under normal circumstances, he could venture a good guess what it was.

They were not under normal circumstances, though.

With a frown, he watched Boyd retreat to his tent, motioned for both Wharton and Jordan to follow and report back later on.

The two men did as they were told, but there was a certain reluctance to their movements. The mood their superior was in was not a new one and both of them had seen him beat grown men almost to death in such a mood. It was one thing at the height of battle, but back then...

It had been the pain over his dead son breaking through then, driving the older man almost insane. He had never spoken about it and it was only guess work on their part, but...

In addition, Boyd's disposition had worsened throughout the day. In fact, it had been like a cycle - a short space of him smiling with what could only be called happiness, followed by much longer times of absolute fury that grew in intensity every time.

Carefully, both men entered the Captain's tent, after giving him a few minutes to calm down. It surprised neither to see that the tent was in complete disarray, things having been thrown and kicked across the small expanse.

In the midst of it all, Boyd stood, his body ramrod straight, his hands in tight fists. He looked as if it was hard work for him to even show a resemblance of calm and the other two men almost wished they could turn around and leave.

"I won't kill you," the Captain said finally, surprisingly calmly.

The other two grimaced, but it was Wharton who finally muttered, "Good thing, you still need us. Sir."

There was a long pause, too long it seemed to Jordan who began to fidget slightly.

Then, surprising them all, Boyd chuckled lightly.

"I do," he acknowledged as he turned. There was still something in his expression and the tension in his body had not lessened, but at least he was calmer now.

"Listen," he began, righting his trunk and a footstool and waving the two men to sit down. "Our man has much wider spread operations than we would like."

"The lad said the truth then? Five places?" Jordan asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice as well.

Boyd shrugged. "I canot say. I only saw one. But the boy's fear is well founded."

"They shoot on sight," Wharton quoted.

"They certainly do not wait to ask questions first. I was still as good as 50 yards away from the place, but they had set up guards. I could make my escape, but I am not certain how many noticed me before I noticed them."

"Why?" It was Wharton who asked. Boyd was a lot of things, but he would not be that careless, especially on a scouting mission.

Their superior remained silent, the tension in his expression magnifying again. His companions saw it, but wisely did not comment. An idea about the reason for Boyd's moroseness was beginning to manifest in their minds, corresponding with the scratches the older man had been quick to cover up.

"Jean le Pilleur is not our only...impediment," he finally said. "I also met a French patrol."

"This close to the border?" Jordan quickly interrupted, though it was clear that he regretted it instantly.

"I am very sorry, Cornet Jordan, that we are at war with the Empire of France, gathering our troops excessively close to _their_ border. I would expect that they are interested in scouting and protecting it," Boyd replied, sarcasm dripping heavily from his words.

Jordan had the good grace to blush.

"What about the place then? I take it you found it by accident when you made your escape from the French patrol?" Jordan led the conversation back to the topic.

"Yes... It was a barn, as regular as you know them anywhere in the country at home. Used for storage. There were many crates, barrels and packs of goods."

"They will hardly leave them there until you can find your way back and we can attempt to raid it," Jordan commented quietly.

"It is in the middle of a forest, that is all I can say. There were many men there as well. It would be tantamount to a battle to raid it and I cannot be certain we can risk such a large deployment on French territory at this point."

"You are certain the barn stood in France?"

Boyd smiled, though it was close to a grimace. "I only caught a short glimpse of the stars, but it was South-West from here. When I fled, I fled in a Northern direction."

"Belgian territory makes a dip southwards near Charleroi..."

"...No, it was French territory. We know that Napoleon is not yet ready for battle. None of his men would risk being caught on our side."

There was a pause as the men contemplated the situation. The French border was a few miles from their encampment, which made scouting missions a tedious business. They needed to leave the horses behind, a dangerous situation all the time, and depend on their feet.

"Did you see Jean le Pilleur?" Jordan asked after a while.

"Without knowing anything about his appearance, I cannot say. We know nothing about him, except that he is brutal, cunning and - if it is even him - wearing an expensive signet ring." Boyd shook his head.

"Rumours do say that he is English," Jordan continued.

"True, but that does not give us a reprieve. There are thousands of English men who have died or disappeared throughout the last twenty years. Over in America they do not even know yet how many men they have lost. No head count has been attempted. They have still not accounted for all the men who died or disappeared in the Peninsula."

Wharton picked up, noticing how pain flashed over the Captain's face. "Which means that we could actually deal with a deserter who exchanged his identity with that of a dead man."

"Possibly through all ranks."

"In America they had this problem on quite a large scale. I have heard that they are missing quite a few of their ranking officers, declared them dead after several months, despite not being certain that they indeed are." Once again, Boyd shook his head. "It has been easy in the upheaval of the last months to slip back to the continent. Ships have not been as thoroughly searched, identities not exhaustively confirmed."

"A deserter of rank then?" Jordan asked once more.

He did not receive a reply, seeing as there really was not any.

* * *

><p>The lads had looked slightly sceptical, despite their attempt to conceal it. His tendency to do things his own way was well-known and in a way, last night's embarrassment spurred him on to find the places again and redeem himself. Yet Boyd could hardly hide that he was not just driven by professional embarrassment or enthusiasm.<p>

There were marks on his body, faint, but undeniably there.

He was not even sure why he wanted to see the woman again, whether it was for punishment or a repetition of the night before, he just knew that he did.

In a way, he was also certain that he _would_ see her again.

That was the main reason why he had sent Jordan and Wharton into a different direction, scouting the area near Charleroi. They needed to take a closer look at the area, find spots where an army could camp and prepare for battle, in addition to discovering Jean le Pilleur and his network.

It was sensible to send off his men into different directions.

Only Boyd had a rather unprofessional agenda. He knew that, and they knew it as well.

In the relatively clear night, Boyd quickly found his way back to the shed. Observed from the edge of the meadow, it stood still and silent in the middle. To Boyd it appeared both homely and secretive.

There was movement in front of it, quickly proving to be a woman.

Boyd felt his heartbeat speed up.

He had only seen her last night, had only touched her last night, yet he could not be in doubt about the woman's identity. Her silhouette was familiar as if he had watched her for ages before.

She stood alone before the hut, at peace with the night's air, wholly unconcerned with her safety. Yet he knew, before he even moved out of the shadows, that she was aware of his presence.

She did not turn as he approached, giving him time to imagine the look on her face. She would not smile, he knew that. A carefully schooled expression, looking right through him and all his pretences. Before her he could not play, did not have to do it either.

Standing behind her for a few moments, he felt a smile grow. She had not exactly dressed up for the occasion, it was not feasible in this terrain, but her dress was carefully arranged, laying her shoulders and décolletage bare.

Her skin was pale in the light of the night, gleaming.

Not able to resist, he extended his hand and laid it on her shoulder. The touch was rewarded with a shiver rushing down her body, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. The sight caused a swift reaction, erasing every hesitation he might have had.

Gently, but firmly her turned her, instantly caught by the look in her eyes, the all-knowing, all-accepting gaze. She did not resist, her arms rising to encircle his neck.

He was not the conqueror here, would never be with her. The realization fanned the fire in his blood, made him step forward and pull her into his arms. She moulded herself against him, curves against planes, her hands at once mapping the length of his spine.

Her lips ghosted over his chest, before he had even realized that she had opened his shirt, pulling it off his body. Groaning as her lips closed around a nipple, his fingers stroked through the elaborate, but surprisingly short style of her hair, gripping, holding and massaging her scalp. She purred in response, smiling at the predictability of his.

She was a dangerous woman, but he had never been so eager to risk anything and everything.

Pulling her down with him, he rolled her underneath him, towering over her as he settled between her legs. There were still her skirts between them, though they both knew they would not stay for long.

Pulling back, he looked at her, waiting for their eyes to connect.

Boyd still could not be completely certain, but he found himself drowning in what he was convinced were the deepest blue eyes he had ever encountered.

Involuntarily, he smiled, cupping her cheek and tracing her skin tenderly with his thumb. She smiled back, warm and knowing, her hand covering his.

"You are not surprised," he rasped. His body was already on fire, beckoned by the softness and fragrance of hers. In her arms he would lose himself for the night, possibly for eternity, something she seemed to know too.

"I knew you would come," she replied, her smile deepening.

For a moment, his ardour was doused, his naturally suspicious mind reasserting itself. Boyd frowned, narrowing his eyes at her.

She did not pick up on the sudden chill between them, or hid it well. If anything, her smile became wider, her features rife with amusement.

"I knew you would be here tonight, just as you knew that I would return to see you."

Had he known that? How did she know? Could his actions of last night have spoken of such desperation, such intimate connection that he could not bear a full day without her company?

Her hand on his cheek brought his attention back to her and he found her to have risen up on her elbow, her face now almost level with his.

"No questions..."

"Who are you?" he whispered as quietly as she had spoken.

In reply she shook her head. "It has no meaning. I do not know who you are, it is not important who I am."

Boyd wanted to protest, all that he had been trained to be screamed against him trusting her so easily, but she closed the distance and kissed him, insistently, but with more finesse than he remembered from any woman in the past.

It was an illusion, of course, but for the moment he found that he did not care much beyond pulling the dress from her shoulder to free her breasts to his mouth.

As he engulfed her nipple, she arched into his touch, moulding herself against him and begging for more. Her moan as he moved to the pulse point under her left ear, echoed in his head heating his blood even further, and he gave up all notion of thought in favour of losing himself in the pleasure of this enigmatic woman.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated<p> 


	10. June 13th Pt I

A/N: For this I'd like to say 3 things. One - Crazymaryt, take your pick. It's probably AU-crack. Two - I know calling Spencer a "coloured" man might not be politically correct, but I somewhat doubt that anybody was bothered by such political correctness in 1815. Three - If you thought the web was tangled before, you haven't read this chapter yet. Many thanks go out to ShadowSamurai83 for the brilliant beta (all mistakes you see are mine) and to the Olympic hugging team.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 13th, 1815 <strong>

On the evening of June 13th, many members of the ton excited and amused themselves with the supplement to the day's "London Gazette". The daily journal therein told tidings from far away Naples were an intrigue those who had been forced to remain away from the excitements of the continent could hardly stop themselves from enjoying.

It was somewhat scandalous, but the woman in question - the first lady of Sicily - through Napoleon's power - had always behaved rather scandalously. Nobody had expected anything else from the ruling couple, a sister of Napoleon and her commoner husband. Two parvenus on an old throne; of course there had to have been scandal.

The ladies and gentlemen of the ton were appropriately excited. Most of them had not seen war through their own eyes, but thrived on the gossip. The very few experienced in battle remained quiet. Certainly, seeing King Joachim Murat overthrown and the rightful ruler, Prince Leopold, reinstated was right and well, but the Frenchman would not hesitate to join his brother-in-law on the field of honour again. And, now former, King Joachim was nothing if not an able Cavalry General.

Naturally, few of the troops gathering in Brabant province were aware that the people of the Sicilian kingdom had disposed of their former ruler and welcomed his replacement. Most of them wouldn't have bothered with the news to begin with, but rumour of the General's return to the French army did go round.

Experienced soldiers took it in with stoicism. If they were to win this war, they'd have to be victorious against the French under any circumstance. It made little difference who commanded them. The officers, however, especially those in charge of planning and deploying troops, felt a little more worried.

General Murat's Cavalry was of superior quality.

The officers of the 11th Light Dragoons knew that, having faced Murat and his troops before. Intelligence of the kind reached them days before it was put into the "Gazette" and accordingly tactical exercises were increased.

There was also a constant coming and going in the encampment, as more and more troops arrived in the fields. Most of them looked exhausted after days and weeks of travel, many of them hungry as well. From a soldier's point of view, Boyd was torn between relief and worry. Tired soldiers made mistakes, too few threw the odds against them.

From an investigator's point of view, the Captain could not be pleased with the additional people, whose name nobody knew, whose faces were unknown to anybody but themselves. How easy would it be to place spies amidst the fighting men?

The thoughts kept him occupied during his trips back and forth to the meadow, distracted him during his squadron's exercises. That was a lapse he could not condone in anybody, least of all himself. His men noticed his increased grumpiness, but thankfully they were experienced warriors, capable of going through the motions despite his distraction.

The morning drills were just finishing as Col. Christie approached the squadron. While Lt. Wharton dismissed the men, Cornet Jordan was already in quiet conversation with his superior. Christie could not hear it, but caught the slightly resigned look on the coloured man.

Christie felt his own features tightening at the words he could easily imagine to be exchanged. Yes, Boyd was a man used to do things his way and it was certainly not insensible to spread out and cover more ground in their nightly scouting, but unlike their superior, both Jordan and Wharton brought back information every night.

Boyd did not.

He disappeared every evening, returned only in the morning with very little to tell. There was something in his countenance that - on a personal level - pleased Colonel Christie, but this was hardly the situation where they could afford one of their most important intelligence officers being so personally distracted.

Col. Grant expected information, his messengers being daily guests at the encampment. He himself and the other ranking officers needed information and assurances, yet Boyd did not provide. At least there had not been another dead body found in the vicinity, but that might just have been luck.

Christie did not believe in such luck. Just because there had been a week without a dead body did nt mean that Jean le Pilleur had not killed again. Leading his horse over, he approached the small group. Jordan and Wharton immediately struck a pose and saluted. Boyd followed, his face carefully devoid of emotion.

"Gentlemen," the Colonel greeted, then lowered his voice as he approached further. "Do you have any news to relay?"

The men shook their heads.

"We plan to ride southwest after lunch, sir, to investigate word of a barn north of _Boussois_ that seems to be used for storage," Boyd offered.

Looking at the three soldiers, Christie believed to perceive some surprise from the younger men, but they were able to mask it well. Presented with a definite plan of action, he could hardly reprimand them for inactivity.

"_Boussois_?" he asked instead, the map of the area appearing before his mind's eyes. "Is nt the village already on the French side?"

"Indeed, sir," Cornet Jordan offered, ignoring the fact that he should not directly address a man of such superior rank. "But only a mile from it. We believe the barn to be situated just inside Belgian territory."

The Colonel, though not convinced, did not answer in the face of a united front. "Very well," he replied instead. "Make certain that you are not caught and for God's sake, bring back some actual results!"

The men saluted eagerly, probably glad to have escaped so easily.

It took a few minutes before the three men followed their commander back to the camp. The two lower-ranked eyed their immediate superior curiously.

"_Boussois_?" Wharton finally asked. Though his tone was still within the expected pattern of a soldier addressing his superior officer, he suppressed his doubts only with difficulty. "We have not tried this area. How do you even know there is a barn there?"

Boyd kept his eyes firmly ahead routinely sweeping and cataloguing the faces of the people they passed. He did not answer for a while, which raised the nervousness of his companions. Both began to fidget in their saddles, exciting the horses, as he was still silent after several minutes.

Eyeing him questioningly as they passed the outskirts of the encampment, they found him to have his horse slowed down, his gaze firmly fixed on something in the intermediate distance. The men turned their own mares back to join him, both then following his gaze. The scenes they saw were typical of the outskirts, a makeshift tavern beginning to open for the night, a small market stall busy with the eternal military business of pawnbrokering, some toothbreaker entertaining the masses with the pain of his 'patient'. Children playing, begging, stealing. Women mending, pilfering, offering themselves.

All the usual things.

Boyd's eyes, however, seemed to be fastened on the scene, his eyes locked on two women in particular. There was nothing that made them stand out from the others, both of them were moving casually between the other people, eyeing wares on offer, the men who were there.

They were asking questions, that was different, asking them eagerly. It was not unusual either, women often looked for their husbands or protectors who had gone off to gamble and drink away the meagre wages.

'Poor ladies,' was Jordan's first thought. This line of questioning was rarely successful. However, he quickly changed his opinion. Poor was not the word he could apply to the two. Their dresses might be plain and not very clean, but even from the distance it was obvious that they were not as coarse or as cheap as the others.

Those two very different looking women were not poor. And they did not belong to this part of the encampment.

"We have seen them before," Wharton suddenly muttered, though not quietly enough to remain unheard. It had not been his intention anyway. "In the _Rue Royale_... Interesting."

His Captain did not answer, his focus riveted on one of the two women. Just as it had been three weeks earlier, the younger, taller brunette barely held his attention. She seemed lively enough, active enough to carry out the more obvious tasks. Questioning, flashing a smile while at the same time picking the odd purse. The older woman with her, a blonde, never went far from her side, her task obviously the placating, the smoothing over.

Boyd could not be certain whether her hands were as deft in pinching purses and jewellery as they were in other...tasks, but her behaviour showed her to be no stranger to what she was doing.

The realization made his blood boil. A common thief, a Madame moving with the train from encampment to encampment. Now too old to sell her body in broad daylight or too intelligent to do it, she seduced foolish officers in dark meadows. How could he have been such a dupe?

To think that she waited for him every night, because they shared a connection that compelled her as much as him to return. To think that she was genuine in her reactions, in her noises and movements beneath and against him that drove him to the point of madness. To think that her comforting caresses in the aftermath, when he held her in his arms, stemmed from real feeling.

He could have slapped himself for believing her even remotely honest. He could have been any man and she would have picked him for her gain.

The question was, what would be her price? Every whore had a price, which he would have to pay sooner rather than later.

Angry with himself for the burning knot that had formed in his stomach, Boyd turned his horse, making it trot further into the rows of tents. Wharton and Jordan followed him quietly, exchanging significant, but covert glances behind his back.

They were almost back at their own fires when Boyd finally spoke. "The farmer's boy, Emile, spoke of it. We will go and see for ourselves what is there to find."

* * *

><p>Lunch had not improved Captain Boyd's mood, though the stew had little to do with it. Wharton and Jordan had eyed him from the other side of the fire, exchanging glances, but speaking little. Boyd was in his own world of brooding, undoubtedly replaying the scene in the outskirts again and again.<p>

It had been inconspicuous enough, as there were so many women who were forced by circumstances to make a living in less than morally accepted venues. Poverty and ill fate could strike anyone after all.

In Boyd's mind there was little understanding, as worst case scenarios and self-recrimination warred with denial and disbelief. He barely felt that he ate, certainly did not taste anything. Almost before the pot was empty, he was away from his tent, forcing his men to follow.

They rode in silence, his moroseness cloaking them. The few people they encountered on the roads steered clear of them, throwing worried glances at their uniforms.

When they finally dismounted and left their horses in a small grove, none of them felt at ease. Not only did none of them like to leave their horses behind, but they could also not guess what would expect them.

Carefully they crept forward, using the low shrubbery, the small hollows and single trees for cover. It was doubtful that this particular area would be used for an actual, large battle, but most of them consisted of smaller and greater skirmishes. There would be good places to hide here.

A longer line of trees, birches, acorn, beeches produced a natural barrier in front of them and Boyd waved his companions to his side. Ducking behind a hawthorn bush, they conferred quietly.

"On the other side of those trees, there is the barn, Emile spoke of. He said it never belonged to a farmer here. The French put it up as storage for their customs post, but abandoned it after Napoleon was crowned. Some of the locals used it then, many to hide their sons from French conscription."

"But if it is so well-known, why would Jean use it?" Wharton asked. "It is too obvious."

"Hiding in plain sight," Jordan offered. "The locals would believe one of their neighbours makes use of it, the officials thinking them to be local farmers..."

"...Collecting English military equipment?"

"You saw the people in the camp?" Jordan returned in the face of Wharton's incredulous question. "They have use for everything! We throw something away, they take and use it, or they sell it on. Somebody will buy it! You saw the women..."

A hand on each shoulder and a tight squeeze from that hand stopped the men's exchange. As quietly as before they made their way towards the trees, winding then between them towards the other side.

It was a sunny day, throwing flecks of light onto the ground, reflecting off the metal of their sabres. That posed a danger as they had to expect guards patrolling around the place. So far, they had neither encountered nor seen anybody, the trees too far apart to provide sufficient cover.

"It cannot be the barn you saw that first night, Boyd?" Jordan whispered while they kept surveying between and up the trees. The only real hiding place for a man in the vicinity would be the crown of a tree, providing a good spot for a sharpshooter.

"No. The other side of the barn is in France. I doubt I have approached from that side. Emile and I did not go far enough South and I do not believe I ran long enough to have come this far." Shaking his head, Boyd once again pushed aside the thought of his companion that night. The area had not been anything like this, the foliage much more dense. Lifesaving at the time.

The men were silent again, their eyes sharp on their surroundings. Even before they had arrived, the same thought had been on their minds, though none had mentioned it yet. This would be their first step. Take a few men, in and out within minutes to cause as much havoc as possible.

The Spanish called this '_guerrilla_'-tactics as they had learned during the Peninsular and it had proved to be a highly successful strategy against the French armies. Why should it not work on marauders as well?

Neither of the men could make out many guards from this distance, forcing them to take a closer look. Without a word, Jordan was motioned to creep forward.

Ducking and dodging behind shrubs and in the shallows of the ground, he quickly disappeared from sight.

Boyd felt caged having to crouch down under the cover of the leaves and having to send one of his men to his possible death. They knew nothing really, the only clear answer they would receive would be the sound of a shot. Next to him Wharton tensed, his features suddenly a mask of concentration, before he leapt out of their spot and rushed over to a tree on their left side.

Boyd could not even shout, dangerous as it was, everything went too fast. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol, the weapon in his hand quickly, and aimed at the spot to where Wharton had run.

There was a shuffle, blows being dealt, if the grunting sounds were any indication.

As much as Boyd was drawn to see what Wharton had found, it was his job now to remain under cover, with his weapon trained on any possible attacker they might not have found yet.

Minutes went by, the shuffle continuing and Jordan still absent, and the nervous knot in Boyd's stomach was tightening to burst.

Anxiously, he kept his eyes trained on the direction from where Jordan would hopefully reappear. He could not suppress the quiet sigh of relief as his Cornet crouched down next to him again.

"Where's Wharton?" Jordan asked breathlessly.

"Pounced onto something." The Cornet snorted sardonically. "Guards?"

"Yes, sir. Not in the grove, though. They directly guard the barn. It does not look overly full of goods, but I could not get close enough to look inside. Explains the few guards."

"I see," Boyd replied, his eyes already trained on the shuffle again.

The two men crept closer, finally standing over the pile of human bodies.

"About time, sir," Wharton drawled.

"Indeed, Lieutenant." The Captain's voice left no doubt that he disliked the other man's tone. "What do you have there?" he asked after a while.

Leaning back to provide a better look, but not loosening his touch, Wharton revealed his prize.

It was a man, half a child still. Unkempt, unshaven, dirty, but throwing daggers with his eyes.

Boyd raised an eyebrow.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	11. June 13th Pt II

A/N: ShadowSamurai83 said that I might lose a certain reader to some sort of fit early in this chapter. So, I'm warning you - you know who you are.

Still...enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 13th, later<strong>

From his position at the entrance of the tent, Boyd eyed their prisoner carefully. Something about the man was strangely familiar, but he could not have said what it was. It was his blue eyes, probably, mature beyond his years.

After his initial struggle, the man had given little resistance when they marched him towards their horses and took to the camp. In fact, upon reaching the encampment, the man had looked almost relieved.

He had not said a word yet, but the Captain believed that the young man waited for him to lead the exchange. However, he was not yet ready to do so. Instead he carefully appraised him.

The man was not overly tall and, unlike Cornet Jordan, not very muscled. Still, there was strength in him and agility. The indubitable ability to fight. He was definitely young, his attempt at growing a beard unsuccessful so far. Boyd remembered the age, remembered the girls of society who preferred their beaus to be clean-shaven.

His thoughts involuntarily returned to his nightly companion. She...seemed to like the growth, her gasps when kissed her inner thighs...

It took some effort, but Boyd forced himself to continue with his appraisal. Early twenties, this young man was, if even this old. Pale skin, his eyes blue. Handsome lad probably, when he cleaned up. At the moment he was filthy. His clothes, his skin, showing signs of having lived on the rough for quite some time. He did not look starved, but with the army pantries and storages basically open, it was easy to slip in and scavenge.

They had found no contraband with him, nothing of value except the sabre hanging down his side. That was the only time the young man reacted, unwilling to relinquish it. He had not said anything then, his eyes speaking enough.

Those eyes were turned to him now and Boyd found himself at the centre of everybody's attention. Jordan's expression showed his frustration and he made of gesture of 'please, try it yourself, sir.'

Boyd took a seat opposite the young man and studied him further. The diffuse familiarity confused him still, but he held himself back.

"I think I will need your name in the future, but am I correct in my assumption that you wish to offer your services to me,... us?" he asked.

A minute smile flitted around the young man's mouth and his eyebrows went up.

"The thought has crossed my mind," he said after a minute's silence. His voice was quiet and though there was a certain amount of sarcasm, in Boyd's opinion it lacked haughtiness. Neither Jordan nor Wharton seemed to agree, their stances tensing even more.

"Have you changed your mind?" Boyd continued, his own features mirroring the younger man's.

"You want to find Jean le Pilleur and I can help you."

"How?" Wharton interrupted, derision obvious.

The young man returned the behaviour in kind, his eyebrows rising sarcastically. "You have been in the area but a few days, while I have been here for months. I do know whether this barn you wanted to look at earlier is a worthy target when pursuing our marauding friend or not. I even know when it is worth a try. I also speak French." He paused, his smile turning even more smug. "Can you claim this for yourself as well?"

Wharton looked as if he wished to strike a few blows, but his superior held him back. He found the exchange quite amusing. "If you have all this information, why do you wish to share it with us?"

There was silence for a while, while the stranger contemplated his reply. In the end, he shrugged. "Let's say that I have an interest in Jean receiving what he deserves. Justice, if you wish to apply the term."

"We are not murderers," Boyd announced.

The answer made him uneasy as the young man said, "I do not expect you to be."

The Captain nodded. "You are willing to work with us?"

"Yes."

"Then I need your name."

The young man smiled. "I believe that it will be sufficient if you call me Chris."

"Chris," Boyd said. "No more?"

"No more."

The Captain got up, thus forcing the man opposite up as well. "Very well, Chris... About your sabre..."

"What about it?" The young man became defensive again.

"Yours?"

"Yes!" he declared defiantly. "And it is well-earned."

Boyd carefully took it away, then pulled it out of its holster. It was a good blade, good quality, but obviously used before. Studying it, the Captain paused and his eyes widened.

"You are a veteran?"

"Yes. Leipzig. And a few others."

"Been to Paris?"

Chris half shrugged, half nodded. "Tyranny for benevolent reasons remains a tyranny, sir."

There was a long silence during which Boyd contemplated the young man that fortune - or misfortune - had brought to them. He could not yet make his mind up about him, but now was possibly not the time to do so.

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><p>The interview had continued for some time after and to Boyd it had been satisfactory. Reporting to the Colonel, he received permission to take the young man on, even if the Colonel had cautioned to watch him closely.<p>

There was no question that this would be done, especially since both Wharton and Jordan could not share in their superior's conviction. The facts spoke against the lad whose words they could hardly prove to be right or wrong. He had, after all, been caught in the vicinity of a suspected marauder's lair.

Trusting him could mean walking into doom with open eyes.

In addition, both men found it peculiar that Boyd so easily trusted the other man. The Captain was not known to give his faith quickly. If anything, it was him who held onto doubts and reserve the longest. It had saved them many a times, along with his instincts.

It was possible that his instincts were at work this time again, because he had not given an explanation and it seemed to his men that he would not even have been able to do so. They would have to go with his instincts and with his orders.

Both did so grumbling quietly to themselves, but as they were now quietly leading their horses along a dark path that would bring them to the meadow where the barn was situated from a different angle, they could hardly complain. It was a much easier approach, providing more cover for longer, and at least Wharton had to admit that this approach held much more chance for a surprise attack.

Jordan refused to think so on principle.

To him it was suspicious that the new man suddenly wanted to be on their side and even offered inside information. How had he gained it? Inside information required access to the inner workings of something. Had Boyd allowed a marauding spy into their midst?

There was little time to dwell on the thought as Boyd raised his arm, bringing the small platoon of eight men to a quiet halt. Through the leaves they could see a small fire burning in front of the barn. Otherwise it was pitch black. Clouds hid the stars, promising rainfalls later that night.

The small fire did not offer much in terms of discovery, the radius of its light too small to give any real information. There were men, probably a few more than they were, but they would - hopefully - have the surprise moment on their side.

As they had trained countless times, the men placed the reins in one hand and cocked their pistols with the other. If they got a few shots in first, taking out a few of their opponents, their small number would be no problem. In and out before a drawn out exchange could be established.

Boyd gave the picture before him one last look, his eyes narrowed as he calculated the scene in front of him. They had two minutes, no more. If more men were hiding inside the barn...

Taking a deep breath, he sent a short and silent prayer, not to God, his belief in the Almighty having disappeared in _Salamanca_. They needed a success and little loss.

Then his hand swept down.

The men followed his signal seamlessly, even their new addition fit into the formation without a problem. Forward they rode, pistols cocked, sabres at the ready.

They broke out of their cover, into the light. There was confusion on the meadow, just what they needed. A few men were felled by the horses and well-placed sabre blows. There was disorder amongst the ambushed men, something Boyd saw with relief.

It did not last long, for those marauders were thinking on their feet as well. It took less than a minute before the first bullets flew, coming from the marauder's pistols.

"Take whom we can get and move out!" Boyd yelled, turning his horse to deflect and attack with his sabre. It was a short, but fierce clash of steel, the other man - tall, lanky, dark-haired - an able fighter as well.

The blood rush of a fight, Boyd relished it, felt strength flow through his arm as he swung the blade again and again.

"Sir!"

The call came from behind, Jordan's voice, already from a distance.

With a last look and a last blow, he turned his mare again and used the spurs to disappear into the darkness.

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><p>All in all, it had been a successful expedition that night, though the bullet grazing Wharton had already been too much in terms of loss on their part. But they had taken home a few prisoners, now safely ensconced in an arrest tent, and they taken a few bags and barrels as well. In the morning, they would take a larger squadron, see what had been left of the contraband.<p>

All in all, Boyd was not dissatisfied with the result. Yet there were still worries. Their new addition, Chris, was one of them. The Captain understood youthful exuberance, understood temper only too well, but the young man's reaction worried him. Disappointment was one thing, eagerness to please another, but the young man's determination might prove dangerous.

Too much focus made one blind. And it was still unknown why young Chris was so insistent on helping to catch the marauder. What was their business with each other?

And who would be the greater risk in the end?

This was not Boyd's only worry, his self-conscious scolding him heavily for the path he was walking now. His mind told him that he went to demand answers, that tonight they would not love, but speak.

It gave his heart a strange twinge to consider their acts love, yet he could hardly term their encounters in a more carnal way. It was no longer true, had never been. He did not just take her against her will to assuage the needs of his body. He doubted that she would ever allow him to do so.

There was something about this woman that drew him in in a way he had never experienced before. She seemed to look into his soul, seemed to know, without a word, what he wished and what he needed. They did not speak many words, yet Boyd was certain that had he met her under polite circumstances their conversation would have been easy and stimulating.

She was a woman of extensive sense and understanding, well-read he believed. There was warmth and attention in her expressions and reactions. She took an interest in the world and in people and his instincts made him believe that it was part of her nature.

Yet, at this point, she had to have an agenda, for why else would a woman of knowledge and some standing choose to roam the fields of a future battle? He could not believe her to be a common whore, not even a courtesan. Everything in him refused to believe so. Yet was it his body which commanded his mind? Was it his heart? Or was the mind, the rationale he was so proud of, still ruling the man?

Even now, just anticipating their meeting a few minutes away, made his body react, his skin tingle. If he closed his eyes he could map the curves and hollows of her body, the softness of her skin in every detail.

But the question did not go away: Why was she - an English woman - in Brabant these days, if not to follow her agenda?

That made her suspicious and Boyd was too much of an investigator not to notice her reluctance to reveal information about herself.

They had met every night for the last days, had fallen into carnal pleasures easily and eagerly, yet he still did not know her name. He had not surrendered his either, but he would be easier to find than she was.

In his position and situation this was not merely a strange thing to be wondered about in times of idleness, it was a palpable danger.

Boyd's instinct told him to trust her, but his eagerness to see this woman and to feel the touch of her body against his could easily overpower his instinctual distrust. He wanted to believe in her innocence, but he wanted her to want him for himself, not for the position or the intelligence he could offer.

Her assured presence at the shed every night gave him grounds to believe that she felt just as bound to see him, but women could be manipulative creatures. More than once had he seen it, the vindications of a clever woman.

Her active mind doubtlessly gave her scope to devise and execute such a scheme, but when he held her in his arms, when he touched her pale naked skin, when her noises of pleasure filled his ears and made his blood burn, all doubts evaporated.

So did all common sense.

He did not even know her name, but he knew how she seduced him with every touch, every soft sigh and feeling his breeches becoming tight, Boyd realized that he would not ask her her name this night either.

She turned when he approached, instinctively knowing that it was him. There was a light in her eyes that he could see was a happy and excited glint when he approached.

The oppressive air, indicative of a thunderstorm that would start within moments, enhanced the tension that quickly build between them.

His breathing heavy and his breeches encumbering him more and more, Boyd knew that their encounter tonight would be as charged as the thunderstorm that was already rumbling. The glint in her eyes deepened and she pulled him against her, their mouths clashing and his shirt being opened, just as the first lightning bolt struck in the distance.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	12. June 14th Pt I

A/N: I find it quite curious how invested you all are in the bulging breeches. Hope your imagination then carries you through this chapter where they are not directly mentioned. This chapter just stirs things up a little more. (And it's only the beginning of the day :o)). Many, many thanks to ShadowSamurai83 - and a hug! To CatS81 too *biiig hugs*

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>June 14th, 1815<strong>

On the small scale of things, it was a day like many other days before. Soldiers gathered in preparation for the big battle, would go through exercises while hoping for a quick end. They would be eager for a quiet afternoon and night with enough food in their stomachs and enough brandy to fill up. They would hope for a sunny day and a dry night, so they could have a comfortable night's sleep.

Some would care for a chance to escape the tedium by finding a tavern with a rousing game of cards where there was money to win, or - even better - a willing wench to forget the world with for a while and scratch the itch.

There was no difference between the crews and the officers, though the latter were probably hoping for a hot bath and a change into the more fancy of their clothes. It was only Wednesday, but with the battle looming. Who knew when they would find another chance?

Brussels was alive as usual, with teas, parlour conversations and parties. The Duke's staff officers were seen at each and every one of them, which was not unusual, since the Duke wished for his officers to socialize as much as possible.

One would think that they had not a care in the world, a ruse, of course, as their superior officer was heavy with worries.

What he did not know yet, and what lay the heaviest on his mind, was the fact that he still could not pinpoint where Bonaparte would attack. Neither did he know when. The surprise on the side of the French could have fatal consequences as the German headquarters was far away, too far to react quickly should Napoleon attack the Prussian allies first.

Wellington was not happy with the situation, and had he known just how close the battle was upon him, his temper might have been a lot less sweet than it seemed to the ladies in the parlours that day.

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><p>The morning was different than the previous, though he could not say why. Maybe it was the dampness of the land after the nightly rain and thunderstorms which had howled viciously over them. Slowly rising to consciousness he could still feel the shaking of the ground under the pure force of the thunder.<p>

The hay had provided warmth, the roof of the shed at least some shelter from the rain, but it had still been a cowing experience, reminding man of the power of greater beings.

It had also been the first time he had seen a sign of uncertainty in her. She was a fearless woman, yet the thunder had rushed shivers through her which were not caused by the touch of his hands and lips. Seeing her vulnerable like this had brought on a quick, but fierce wave of protectiveness. He had held her protectively, whispering nonsensical assurances until the storm had run its course and she had relaxed into him. In the aftermath, she had taken his hands and lead him on a journey of discovery that he had not thought possible with a woman.

All this tumbled through his mind, warming his body and his heart from inside, but all hazy thoughts turned into sharp realization that once again he woke up alone. It twisted sharply in his gut, this hot and cold, the unanswered questions. Again, she was gone like a thief in the night.

Not sure what had woken him in the first place, Boyd rose up to his knees to look around the meadow and was suddenly galvanised into action.

There was a short blink of bright colours amidst the green of the foliage. Under the overcast sky, it could hardly have been a trick of light. As quickly as possible, he followed the sight, hopeful to bring some of the secret into the open.

She moved fast and almost noiselessly, he had to give her that. Yet his long strides had him at an advantage and before long he could see her silhouette amongst the branches and leaves. She did not seem to feel followed, her movements confident and serene, surprising if she had indeed espionage on her agenda.

They went on for a while, she in front, Boyd a few steps behind, careful not to disturb her serenity. It gave him the chance to watch her as well, gave him a chance to realize just how much at home she seemed to be in the fields and woods. Here and now she did not give the impression of a woman used to parlours and ballrooms. Her ability to pick purses and charm men for a gain also showed her to be a woman of mercenary...of the streets? Yet he could not believe that about her, did not want to. Not only would he declare himself a failing fool, but he could not allow anybody, not even himself, to slander her this way.

It was this thought startled him more than he cared to admit.

Suddenly, she stopped, just next to the tree line, but still in the shadows of the crowns. Several feet behind her, Boyd stopped as well, crouching down to use the cover.

Within moments there were more voices, quickly discernible as two other women.

Their conversation was rushed as much as it could be in French. Boyd realized that the women spoke the language well, their words chosen well, only unease and excitement making their speech rough.

"Avez vous trouvé quelque chose cette nuit?", one woman asked.

"_Non, __rien_ _de conséquence_." It was _her_ and though he could not be certain, he believed to hear hesitation in her reply.

"Nous n'avons plus de..." Inwardly, Boyd groaned as just at this moment, a gust of wind rustled the leaves and drowned out the words.

The women lowered their voices even more it seemed, the third woman joining in and obviously agreeing to what the other had said. "Oui, Madame..."

She was interrupted by _her_ again, a quick, "Grace, s'il vous plaît," being uttered just a bit impatiently.

The apparently local woman smiled, but even in his hiding place, Boyd could hear the embarrassment in her voice. "Very well. Grace." She paused for a moment, before continuing in surprisingly polished but halting English. "My younger brother, Emile, is paid by a soldier. To give information. It is getting too dangerous...if you are found out..."

The sound of hooves nearby interrupted the hushed conversation, before either of the three women could say anything more. From his place, he could not see who it was, but the women quickly slipped between the trees disappearing into the grey morning, a strategy Boyd could, in all sensibility, only follow.

As he carefully made his way back through the trees, firmly in the direction of the encampment, his mind was in turmoil.

What had he heard there?

What did it all mean?

Grace.

Her name was Grace.

A slow smile stole over his features.

Grace.

The name suited her.

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><p>The encampment was only just waking on a general scale as he returned to the tents. Boyd did not bother with the men who began their day as he made his way for the small group of tents, amongst which his own was.<p>

Jordan sat before his, expectant of his superior officer.

"How's Wharton?" the Captain asked by way of a greeting.

"Nothing a bandage and a good brandy cannot heal. The Lieutenant is resting, sir."

Boyd nodded. "Good. And our new addition?"

The Cornet shrugged, his previously open expression closing off. "In my tent, waiting to talk to you, he says."

Sitting down on the field chair, Boyd eyed his soldier. "You do not trust him. You think it is a mistake that we took him on." Neither was a question.

"Cannot trust many people these days, sir. Strangers who suddenly want to help are... Trust needs to be earned, sir."

Once again, Boyd nodded. Leaning forward, he pulled a mug from the ground, then filled it up with hot water over some tea they had stashed. They would not have many opportunities to sit down and have some tea before the battle commenced and Boyd was eager to enjoy the small luxury.

"But?" he finally asked.

Jordan hesitated, sipping his own brew for a few moments. "He knows how to fight, shielded Wharton from worse last night."

"There you have it."

"True," the Cornet admitted. "But we have seen spies move in with much less finesse. It might be part of his plan to deceive us. We cannot know who to trust..."

The intensity of Jordan's last words surprised Boyd. Turning slightly, he eyed the other man intensively. "What do you mean?"

Once again, Jordan hesitated. "It seems as if everybody has an agenda these days. Boney, The Duke, Jean le Pilleur, Chris...even we have one. It is of little consequence that we were given ours by His Majesty. Everybody keeps secrets and follows them. Even those women we saw yesterday."

Next to him, Boyd stiffened, which the Cornet noticed, but he carried on regardless. "Those women do not belong in the outskirts of an encampment, they were too refined for it. Yet, they blended in naturally." He paused, looking thoughtfully into his own mug. "Wharton and I were talking about it last night after you were gone. Again."

The mug in the Captain's hand stopped on its way to his mouth. It took a moment, but then he had full control over himself again. The glare he sent the lower ranked man would have made others cower, but Jordan feared little that came from his superior officer. Still, he found it wise not to pursue the idea any further.

There was a pause before Boyd asked, his voice edgy with annoyance, "What were you saying?"

Jordan shrugged. "We know very little about Jean le Pilleur as a person. All we have is gossip and vague hints. No confirmed home country or language, no history; we do not even know if it is really a man."

The Captain snorted. "A woman?"

"We do not know whether it is actually Jean who hits the victims before they are shot. It could be one of the gang... And Jean could easily be Jeanne."

"You do not honestly believe that, Cornet Jordan, do you?" Having found his equilibrium, Boyd snorted with laughter.

The Cornet, however, did not laugh along. "We know little and many things seem possible. Only because you feel the gentleman way, sir, does not mean that we are wrong."

It was a credit to Captain Boyd's gentlemanly ways and upbringing that he did not strike his Cornet on the spot.

His voice, however, held enough warning for Jordan to instantly follow the hissed order.

"Dismissed!"

* * *

><p>The young man looked up from his mug, his face an example of curiosity. The open curiosity turned into a guarded expression quickly, though, upon seeing Boyd's face. Sitting up straighter and placing his mug on the ground, he visibly prepared for attack.<p>

Boyd noticed the transformation in the young man on a subconscious level, but as anger was still surging too hotly through his body he did not play heed to the signals of his companion.

"Sir," the young man acknowledged calmly.

"You will stand and salute for a superior officer," Boyd barked as he stood with shoulders squared at parade rest.

Chris followed the order; however, his movements were deliberate enough to show that he only did this on his own terms. Taking up position, he saluted quickly, sharply, but with a tone of irony. "Sir!"

"Sit!"

The young man once again followed the order, now almost amused.

"Will it be worth to re-visit the barn?"

On his chair, Chris deliberately picked up his mug up first, before shrugging. "If we go right away they will not have had the time to empty it completely. But since we left them all alive, I believe Jean will have been informed and taken his own measures."

"It was an operational failure then," Boyd attested and leaned against the tent post. Weariness overcame him for a moment. The long hours of the day, always under the cloud of the coming battle, the subversive attempts of gathering information drained his body. Meeting...Grace...every night was beginning to drain his soul, just as she was invigorating him.

He knew he needed some proper rest before the battle commenced. An overtired soldier was sluggish, a dangerous condition in the middle of a battle. Yet, he could not fathom not seeing her tonight. It would be too long, too lonely, too...

"I would not be so dismissive, sir," Chris broke into the silence after a while. "Putting pressure on them gives us an advantage."

"I would prefer to have a clear description of the man."

The younger man shrugged, a smile flitting around his mouth at Boyd's petulant tone.

They were silent once again as Boyd contemplated his companion.

"What do you gain from helping us, Chris?"

"Satisfaction," the younger man answered calmly, as if he had rehearsed the words in his head. "Settling a few accounts. Justice."

They were silent for a moment, before the young man shrugged with an ironic smile. "Take your pick, Captain."

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><p><strong>Translations<strong>

"_Avez vous trouvé quelque chose cette nuit?_" - "Have you found out anything tonight?"

"_Non, rien_ _de conséquence_." - "No, nothing of importance."

"_Nous n'avons plus de..._" - "We are running out of..."

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	13. June 14th Pt II

A/N: I promised an update and here it is. It's a short one, but I hope it will be worth the wait and the few words. It's for all of you, some in particular. You know who you are. Thanks. And hugs.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 14th, later<strong>

The conversation stopped immediately once he entered the tent, and even though he was not a self-centred man - not too much in any case - it was obvious that he had been the topic of the discussion.

"Captain Boyd at your service, sirs!" he saluted, standing ramrod straight.

"Ah, Boyd, finally." It was Col. Grant addressing the newcomer as he stepped further to the front of the tent. "I am glad you could join us."

Boyd nodded, still at attention.

"At ease, man. At ease," the Colonel continued with a dismissive gesture of his hand. Over his shoulder, he continued, "It was a success last night, I heard. The raid on our marauding friend's hideout."

Understanding the nonchalant words as an order to elaborate, Boyd nodded. "Yes, sir! We managed to disperse the gathered group of men, captured three of them who are detained in our arrest tent for questioning until further notice."

"Contraband?" another officer who Boyd knew only vaguely asked. It was a staff officer of the Duke's, but the name escaped Boyd. Not that it was of any greater consequence.

"Not as much as we might have found had we been able to clear out the barn last night, but the marauders were not able to empty the place."

"What did you find?" the officer asked again.

"Barrels of gunpowder, several boxes of rifles, cavalry supplies." Boyd shrugged and grimaced quickly. "A few luxury articles, crates of food."

"What kind of luxuries?" Christie asked, though Boyd could detect a sardonic glee in his countenance, because he knew the answers already.

"A few pieces of silverware, some jewellery and a Gobelin which has apparently been stolen from a palais in Brussels."

Christie smirked. Col. Money smirked. Even Col. Grant's mouth twitched.

Boyd's expression remained unreadable.

The officer pulled back into the shadows, thoroughly put out.

"On a serious note, Boyd," Col. Grant picked up the conversation again. "Any sign of Jean?"

"No, sir! There were clothes and pieces of jewellery in the barn that could belong to Jean or his immediate group, but we have no certainty. We still lack any feasible description of the man..."

"...You are not even certain it is a man?"

With another nod that also hid the quick twitch of a muscle in Boyd's cheek, he nodded. "We cannot rule that out yet, sir."

"Any leads?"

"We do have two locals who have provided valuable information," Christie replied before Boyd could utter a word. "As a matter of fact, our summons has interrupted Captain Boyd preparing for another raid tonight."

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><p>It had been an attempt to save face from Christie and as he wordlessly left, Boyd knew that Col. Christie had just protected his reputation and skin. The debt of this was heavily on his mind as he slowly led his horse along the road.<p>

The floodgates of heaven seemed to have opened as soon as they had left camp and as drenched as they were, they were all miserable, slumped in their saddles, trying to make themselves as small as possible.

The ground under the hooves was turning into mud with the relentless watershed, making manoeuvring difficult. Boyd saw it with worry, found it reflected on the faces of his men. Cavalry depended on dry ground, their success relying on swiftness, precision and speed. Heavy, wet ground would impede them, tire their horses more quickly and make them easier targets for the enemy. Throwing a look over his shoulder, Boyd wondered for a brief moment how many of his companions would still be alive in a week's time.

In front of him, the lad shifted. Young Emile was accompanying them tonight, but his original enthusiasm had waned quickly in the misery of the night. Now, he was burrowed into the Captain's body, trying to stay as dry as possible, but there was little chance of it.

Only occasionally, his arm shot out, forcing them into a change of direction.

The half a dozen horses trotted along the road as tiredly as their riders sat on them. From afar they looked like a beaten squadron and in secret there were several amongst them who felt this way. The only one who was somewhat alert was Chris. The young man seemed excited at the prospect of the raid. His eyes were wide, constantly scanning the vicinity.

This in turn alerted both Wharton and Jordan, who could not help but wonder at their new addition. Boyd's connection to the young man made them weary.

The nocturnal encounters with that woman were one thing - Boyd had never before let a woman get to him, not his wife and not the rare women on the campaigns. Though this one seemed to make much more of an impact, a few hours of sweet forgetfulness hardly posed a threat.

The young man in their midst, however, was close. Close enough to cause serious harm. Both Wharton and Jordan had made it their unspoken task to act as Boyd's personal protectors. He did not make it easy for them, reckless and quick-tempered as he was, but they would not allow some uncouth youngster to endanger their Captain.

On the way for close to an hour now, Boyd suddenly stopped his horse at Emile's insistence.

"Behind the grove," he pointed to the left.

"A barn, you say?" Jordan quietly reiterated.

"Small one."

"Heavily guarded?" Wharton pitched in from the other side.

The lad shrugged.

The two men did not look happy, causing their Captain to shake his head. "We will have to trust our luck. Hope for large success and little loss. Lt. Wharton, take Mr. Gaskell with you and secure our advance from the East! Mr. Adams, you and Mr. Linster take the West. Jordan, you and Chris stay with me. I give you two minutes for your approach, then we will strike. Good luck, gentlemen!"

Nodding in acknowledgement, the soldiers turned their horses and took off. They were experienced men and Boyd trusted their advance. In a slow trot, he guided his horse forward, certain in the knowledge the remaining men were following him. Quietly he talked to Emile, who now began to show a hint of fear. His previous bravery and large mouth evaporated in the face of bullets possibly shooting by his head. For all his maturity, he was still only 13.

Without any signal, the men suddenly gave spurs, galloping to the front of the barn. It looked inconspicuous enough, the walls old and partially broken. In this miserable weather, the structure looked as if it would break down any second.

The desolate condition made it look like the last place to hide any valuables, which explained the lack of a heavy guard. Only two men were sitting there in the entry way, guns at the ready. The darkness, however, proved to be a strong ally, hiding the British soldiers long enough to sweep in before the guards had a chance to actually bring their rifles into position. Sergeants Gaskell and Linster took care of the guards, quickly disarming them and holding them captive with their sabres drawn.

Boyd saw it with satisfaction, his nod of approval not outwardly, but very clearly acknowledged.

Carefully, the remaining men made their way inside the structure using the lantern the guards had kept with them.

It was dry inside and once their eyes had adjusted to the dimness, Wharton let out a low whistle.

"Lieutenant!" Despite his stern reprimand, Boyd inwardly agreed. The desolate outside was a perfect ruse, overturned completely by the inside impression of the barn. The roof, barely visible from outside proved to be well made-up, so that it was completely dry beneath it.

It might not have been the main depot of Jean le Pilleur, but there were certainly countless valuables stored in here.

Bags, cases, boxes, barrels - all of them seemed to be full. Wine, gunpowder, rifles, clothes. There were even rolls of fabric which Boyd would bet were muslin and silk. There were boxes full of money and the odd piece of jewellery.

Shaking their heads, the men moved around eyed their price.

"It looks like the proverbial pirate's lair. The way I always imagined it as a child," Cornet Adams breathed.

The other men smiled, but did not comment. There were boxes, filled with fine jewellery, necklaces that should grace a woman's neck, instead of being tucked away in a barn. The men eyed the fineries with varying degrees of excitement or detachment.

"Mr. Adams, you and Misters Gaskell and Linster remain here while we organize backup and transport. We will start emptying out this barn tonight, so that Jean and his marauding friends have no chance to secure their prices and take them away," Boyd ordered.

The man saluted and quickly joined his fellow soldiers at the entrance.

"Cornet Jordan, Lt. Wharton, please make certain that there are no back doors to this structure! We do not want any unpleasant surprises before we have secured the contraband. Once done, meet us at the entrance again."

The two men dispersed quickly, leaving Boyd, Chris and young Emile to stand amidst the wealth of goods.

The lad looked around with an open mouth, undoubtedly never having seen anything like this before. Boyd could not blame him and neither did Chris, judging from the look on his face. They rarely were this lucky.

Suddenly, Chris bent down, picking up something from the floor. As he stood upright again, bringing what he had picked up further into the light, Boyd could see his entire body go rigid. In fact, the younger man looked as if he had turned to stone. His face was so pale that it easily compared to marble.

The Captain closed the distance, raising the lamp higher to get a better look, then he carefully pulled the object out of the younger man's hand. There was resistance in the other, a pull to keep what was in his hand.

His face was tense, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on the object.

With a little more insistence, Boyd pulled and finally held the object aloft.

It was an amulet on a chain. A miniature.

Rising the lantern even higher for a better look, Boyd knew that he did not really need it. His eyes had not deceived him before.

The woman depicted in the miniature was easily recognisable. Younger maybe, but just as distinctive.

He would know those blue eyes, only now confirmed as indeed vividly blue, anywhere.

Giving the young man a look, Boyd found his face still pale and his expression still one of shock.

He was fairly certain that his own expression showed the same.

The woman in the miniature was Grace.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	14. June 14th, Pt III

A/N: I'm not sure what I am supposed to think about the fact that I get so little reaction when I post plot and so much when I post even a hint of p0rn. But I think I am highly amused by it. So, this is chapter contains things that I blame happily on Joodiff, who will probably enjoy it so much that CPR is needed. So, get the doctors ready.

Other than that, enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 14th, even later<strong>

He could not sleep.

Though not an uncommon experience, it was unwelcome this time. He needed the rest, but more than that the deep void of forgetfulness.

She had been constantly in his thoughts before, almost physically there in his imagination, but now with a painted reminder in his hands, he could not put her out of his mind.

In the meagre light of the lantern next to his cot, he stared at the picture, tracing the lines of her face, as delicately depicted as they were, with his eyes. It was a formal portrait, not giving testament to her lively character, and he found that it was a serious lack of the painting.

Only the intensity of her eyes shone out, speaking to him and seeing into his soul.

He would not part with this prize, no matter what happened in the days to come. If the last nights were but a mere memory, he would still hold on to this, look at her face and...

The jewel had not solved any of the questions he carried about her. If anything, it was raising the number.

The miniature was carefully and elegantly set, the entire piece of jewellery a sign of wealth. If such a reminder of her existed, Grace could hardly be a woman of the streets, could she? But if she was not, who was she?

What was her reason for being here?

And why had she sought him out? For he could no longer be in any doubt that she had actively pursued his 'acquaintance'.

Even more than that, how had a jewel with her portrait come into the contraband of Jean le Pilleur?

Was it part of a theft?

Did it belong to one of the men killed by the marauder?

Or did it belong to one of the lawless men?

Could Grace be the wife of a criminal?

There were too many questions, one sounding worse than the other. Boyd did not like any of them. Cornet Jordan was correct, his gentlemanly feelings made Boyd wish that Grace was merely an innocent bystander, brought here not by necessity, but coincidence.

He wished it fiercely and the wish was beginning to blind him to all other options.

This was not to be!

He needed to be cool, collected, devoid of emotion towards her.

Yet if he closed his eyes, he could feel the wispy touch of her hands on his chest. Her fingers softly whispering over his skin, leaving shivers in their wake. Her lips were full and warm, soft in their pressure. Her hair, always a little messy and slipping out of its confines, brushed over his nipples as she kissed her way from his throat to the fastenings of his breeches.

She was so incredibly talented with her lips and her tongue, he could feel every flick and every swipe.

Even with his eyes closed, he could see the impish flicker in her eyes when she slowly, but deftly, released him from the confines of his trousers. Her hands were sure, no hesitation there as she took him in hand and stroked him.

She was not shy, not inhibited, and he hoped that it was due to him and not some commercially acquired skill. Her hands stroking him left him breathless, her lips on him made him shout, and she still smiled.

Her eyes could burn and he loved to make them burn even more intensely, when he took the lead, carefully unwrapping her from the swathes of clothes that concealed her body from his.

Despite the cold and the dampness of the night, her skin was warm and soft and fragrant, doing something to his mindset that he could not really explain. She was not a young woman any more, even older than him by careful accounts. She'd had children and it showed in her body. There were lines and wrinkles in her face and on her body, but there was something in her that made him want her with a desire he had never known before.

Closing his eyes, he imagined how her eyes might burn in the slow light of a fire, how the flames would flicker over her naked skin, casting shadows, highlighting her nimble fingers as they moved over his skin.

He opened his eyes, disturbed by a noise outside, and found himself clutching her portrait in one hand, while stroking his hardness with the other.

God, a full night away from her was almost too much to bear.

* * *

><p>They were sitting around the lantern, tightly wrapped in blankets and coats. The soup in their bowls was thin and the bread coarse, but at least it pushed warmth into their bodies. Outside the building the wind whipped around the corners, making shingles and beams creak alike. It was not a good night to be outside and so they sat there, huddled closely together for warmth.<p>

Silently they ate their meagre meal, but neither of them forgot to say thanks before. These were the spares from an already poor table, much more needed by those who had provided them with shelter and food. Generosity was given, though it could hardly be spared with yet another new mouth to feed.

Such a different life from what they were used to, and so far from the exciting, romantic adventure one might describe their venture as.

If there had ever been a romantic notion in either woman's head, they had both given it up long ago. It was a matter of survival now and would become more pressing as the armies marched in.

Ms. Eve Lockhart pushed the thought away for the moment, focussing on her bowl and her spoon. With this she was trying to take a leaf out of her companion's book, and inwardly she congratulated herself on her success. It seemed as if the older woman was much more nervous than her protégé .

It had little to do with the weather and very much with the fact that it prevented her from leaving this barn to go God knows where, to do God knows what.

The farmer's suggestion about soothing a soldier's loneliness in exchange for information and easy passage came back to her mind. She was hardly in a position to judge her ladyship, but for a lady to sell her body... Even to an open-minded individual like Ms. Lockhart it was unfathomable.

Her ladyship did not provide information about her nightly adventures, yet there were marks on her body that left little room for misinterpretation. Yet there was no trace of fear, no sign of displeasure or pain in the other woman. Not even a trace of shame. Under different circumstances, Eve would have believed that her mistress was finally, finally returning back to life and possibly to love.

There was a light in her eyes now, an anticipation in her countenance when she went off, that Eve had not seen...not even seen when his lordship had still been with them.

"You should be careful, milady," she muttered before she could stop herself.

Lady Grace Foley gave her young companion a look from the corner of her eyes. "These are dangerous times, Eve. No matter how careful I am, I cannot avoid it."

The younger woman turned lightly to make eye contact. "I mean the soldier you are...meeting, milady."

Grace did not answer, forcing her companion to continue in a voice choked with embarrassment. "If he finds out... If you are caught... Right now he does not know who...what..."

There was an elongated silence, then Grace smiled slowly. "He won't...find anything out."

* * *

><p>If the first stage was the most difficult, he had mastered it quite well.<p>

He had secured a place within the inner circle. Already he was included in the secret operations and at surprisingly little expense for himself. It was unclear how it had been so easy, but this was not the time to ask pointless questions.

His position was firmly within the circle and at least one man trusted him.

The next stages should be almost as easy as a child's game.

Only one difficulty was still in his way, but there would be opportunities to retract the situation. As long as he kept his head and did not let emotions ruin his chances.

Yet this in particular was hard.

The miniature was special. Very valuable, the short look at it showed the setting to be gold, and the portrait done by a master painter.

It would sell well, but he knew that he would not, not ever, part with it, once he had taken it out of Boyd's hand.

The miniature was special. And it should be his.

However, this was not the time for it and as much as it pained him to put the small token aside for the time being, he forced himself to remember what he had come for.

He should not forget that.

He had come to kill.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	15. June 15th, Pt I

**A/N: **Happy New Year to all of you! Here I am with a new chapter and even though it is actually plot - and I am messing with your heads - I hope you'll enjoy. I'd also like to point out that Boyd is not TE (rather a possible relative of indirect connection who served in another - this - regiment.) He might have been on good terms with with TE's ancestor though. Many, many thanks go once again to the wonderful ShadowSamurai83 for the beta - and to all of you for reading my stories last year and hopefully continue this year.

**Enjoy!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>June 15th, 1815<strong>

The morning of June 15th, in the year of the Lord 1815, dawned grey and misty in Brabant province, just as it did across most of the continent. June had turned exceptionally fresh these days, making men and beast shiver.

Those able to bury deeper underneath their down comforters contemplated not getting up at all. For most, it was not a matter of choice.

In Vienna, footmen, maids, servants, cleaners and cooks were already busy attending to the wishes of the remaining guests of the Congress - those fearful to go anywhere nearer the grand battle, that was to be expected, and those believing that the place to be, the one where all news would gather, was Vienna. The staff not charged with pleasing their masters and mistresses were busy with cleaning up after the guests who had already left - those in fear of losing their newfound or returned fortunes and those hoping to acquire one.

Near and far, in the conundrum of the Habsburg capital, every day people were waking up to follow their everyday life. Few of them bothered with important events, for their important events happened right under their noses - in their fields, on their work benches, in their offices and kitchens.

For the soldiers gathering to finally move towards the French borders to fight the very real ghost of Napoleon Bonaparte, the day dawned in much the same way, yet the tranquillity of early morning ablutions and preparations did not last long.

Into almost all parts of the encampments, where there were tents of commanding officers, into all streets of Brussels where headquarters of some kind where situated, messengers galloped, driving their horses mercilessly.

People jumped to the side everywhere, some annoyed, others anxious.

There was no clear word, yet seeing the soldiers jump down from their horses and run unceremoniously into the tents and palais, even the most careless person could identify the message the men had to deliver.

Boney's here! It has begun!

* * *

><p>Anxiety and rumours quickly sprang up between the tents of the 11th Light Dragoon regiment. Encamped together with the 10th and the 12th, there were enough crew and officers to take a lively interest in the new development. All three regiments had seen battle before, but all of them had suffered heavy losses in the Peninsular and the American campaign. They were also still waiting for the last men to return from America. Thus, the ranks had been filled with new, young blood, barely out of short trousers and with little experience in actual combat.<p>

The new men were afraid, all of them willing, almost greedy to discuss even the minute details of the new development. There were not many to discuss, as the officers had not given out any specific information, therefore the exchanges were rife with gossip.

Some claimed to know that Napoleon had barely 30000 men under weapons, others declared the Emperor had at least four times as many. Yet another claimed that Napoleon would use balloons to spy out the strength of the allied troops and the distance between the British and the Prussian contingent. A fourth was certain that the French would only use artillery...leaving no enemy alive.

The experienced men left them to their gossip and story mongering, at times shaking their head and rolling their eyes, until the Commanders swept in and expressly forbade further tittle-tattle.

Information would be given as the officers saw fit and until then the men had enough tasks set before them. If not, that could easily be changed.

Captain Boyd's squadron kept out of the talks, the men too exhausted from the previous night's activities, too proud of their success and at the same time too veteran to still engage in worrying before the time was neigh. They did have their worries about the upcoming battle, because apart from pushing them into mortal danger, it would cut short their time to apprehend Jean le Pilleur and his men.

The Captain shared their worries, it seemed, showing evidence of a sleepless night. Dark rings under his eyes, pale skin, and a foul mood to make the men cower attested to that. Between them, the men exchanged glances, most of them silently wondering how one man could be in such a perpetually bad mood.

The inner circle - Lt. Wharton and Cornet Jordan - did have a different explanation for Boyd's bad temper, an opinion shared by their newest addition, who also made no move to voice it. Instead the newcomer eyed the Captain suspiciously, wondering why the small jewel held so much interest for the older man. Boyd did not seem a fortune hunter, quite the contrary, but the woman in the picture?

Chris found himself contemplating. Was this woman Boyd's Achilles heel? She the point where force could be applied?

Boyd was thinking none of the thoughts any of his men imagined him having. The military cot, never made for comfort, had been a downright hellish contraption after the softness of the hay the nights before. Waking up alone, his imagination had played havoc on him, the memory of her touch had made him yearn for her body with a fierceness that seemed hardly possible.

No, he would not dwell on it, he reminded himself sternly. The day had already brought bad news and it was likely to get worse. The border was close; if Bonaparte's army had already crossed it, they would have a battle on their hands no later than a day away, and there was still a marauding troupe at large.

No, Boyd's scowl had nothing to do with anything and yet it had everything to do with everything at the same time.

Suddenly, he stopped short, his body frozen in place as his eyes were fixed on a person moving between the tents.

Had it been so easy?

Had they become this skilful?

"Wharton!" The command carried, even though it was quietly hissed out between clenched teeth.

The Lieutenant started, then moved quickly but smoothly to his side. Boyd gestured with his chin towards the woman who was momentarily engaging in light banter with a few lower ranked men of the 12th regiment.

"She's moving quickly. A talent," Wharton commented sardonically.

"Follow her! Find out who she is, whom she meets, what she wants."

Wharton nodded in acknowledgement, but then shook his head. "What about the other? The blonde that caught your eye...?"

Boyd's body stiffened further, his jaw setting in a tight line. Even though he could not see them, Wharton knew that the Captain's fists were clenched. His teeth seemed to grind together to keep the older man's temper in check.

"Sorry, sir!" the Lieutenant mumbled quietly before disappearing to the side. It would take a little meandering before he could show up in the sight of the mysterious brunette they seemed to be meeting more and more often in an oddly short time.

He had been gone for several minutes before Boyd finally managed to relax enough to move again.

* * *

><p>Wharton shook his head. He had to give the woman credit for her ingenuity. Constantly on the move, never in one place long enough to be held back by anything, he had yet to catch up with her. A direct word might be dangerous, but it would be the easiest way to obtain information.<p>

Usually, Wharton was not bothered by the informants they used, or the targets they followed.

This time was not really different, except that he knew that following this woman meant gaining information on her older companion. For himself, the Lieutenant found little interest, but he was not blind or without empathy. One needed little intelligence to notice just how quickly and how strongly Boyd had become invested in the lady.

Knowing his superior officer, Wharton had no doubt that therefore there must be something to her. The Captain did not pick the simple ones. Never had, despite his looks and rare bouts of charm that made the ladies flock to his side. Admittedly, those bouts had dwindled to nothing since Mrs. Boyd had finally succumbed...

It was a strange trait of character in the other man that, since he was free, he was a more faithful widower than he had been a husband.

Now there was this woman and Boyd seemed to be, affected, for the lack of a better word, to a degree that proved to turn dangerous.

Under different circumstances, Wharton would have turned a blind eye, knowing from experience that Boyd acted laissez faire with his men on the account of entanglements in return. This time, however...and they still did not know how trustworthy the woman was. Judging from her companion's ability, Wharton's trust did not increase.

Once again he stepped close to a fire, only to see the back of the brunette. The men sitting around it threw a yearning look after her, their expressions showing rather indecent thoughts.

Wharton shook his head. She was pretty, alright, but...

"Lovely lass," one of the men, a Cornet drawled quietly. "Wouldn't mind her..."

"Do what?" Wharton replied harshly.

The Cornet jumped to his feet. "Sir! Lieutenant, sir! Meaning no harm, sir!"

"At ease!"

The Cornet relaxed slightly, but did not lose the look of unease. "Really, sir, I did mean no disrespect to the lady. She was very nice to us. Bandaged Archie's arm too. Like yours, sir?"

"What do you know?" Wharton ordered.

The Cornet shrugged. "Not much, sir. She just came here, bandaged Archie's arm and said a few kind words."

Another man, Archie apparently, stepped closer and nodded vigorously. "The lady knows about healing and things. She even had a balm for my bruises."

"Fell from a horse, did you?" Wharton smiled sardonically.

"Into some fists, sir!" Almost proudly, young Archie also showed a missing tooth.

Raising an eyebrow, the Lieutenant shook his head. Typical tavern scuffle then. "Did she tell you anything about herself? The lady, I mean?"

"Nah, " the lads replied. "Asked us questions, more like it. Many questions."

"About what?"

Suddenly, the men laughed. "She's like you, always asking questions, but she is better than you."

Wharton drew up to his full height, his glare intense, and very learned from Boyd. The effect was immediate. The men paled and drew to attention again. "Sorry, sir! The lady asks questions and offers money for answers, sir."

"What kind of money?"

"A few shillings, sometimes a pound or two," Archie's friend replied. "I've heard that she's even offered a sovereign to somebody. A really valuable one."

"English?"

"The lady? Yes, certainly. Would know an English rose anywhere, sir."

"Being Scottish and all," Archie cackled, effectively ending the conversation as the men started to brawl again.

Wharton shook his head and went on.

Frustration quickly rose, though. It was the same all morning. Some would claim to have seen the mysterious brunette and her blonde companion around, denied them to be mother and daughter or sisters or anything of any sort of relation to each other.

Their French was well-established, though not without a distinct English accent.

Yet there was no name, no personal information, no distinguishing marks. Nothing.

Except the worrying fact that they were able to cover a great deal of ground, having been seen everywhere between Ostend, Brussels and Charleroi. Always near the encampments. Always asking questions. Often offering money.

Those two women were no whores, that much was obvious.

But what they seemed to be was much more dangerous.

Putting all information out for himself, Wharton could only come to one conclusion.

Those two women were spies.

Had to be.

And the older was out to gain her intelligence - for whomever she was working - directly from Boyd.

By using the oldest trick in the world.

Seducing a lonely man.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	16. June 15th, Pt II

A/N: Glad you all came into the new year alright - and that you are still interested in the mystery. So, lets get on with the mystery, shall we?

Many, many thanks - I can't say just how many - go out to ShadowSamurai83 for her endless patience with me. You are a star!

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 15th, later<strong>

Captain Boyd was a master at keeping his expression neutral, when he wanted to. Lt. Wharton bearing the news of his excursion could attest to that. In the captain's face, no muscle moved, his eyes stared straight ahead.

It was actually the latter one that informed Wharton just how deeply his information affected the other man's mind. Everything else affected was and would remain a carefully concealed secret.

"Spies then," Jordan voiced what they were all thinking.

Gravely, the Lieutenant nodded. "Not of the lowly sort either, I do believe."

"Didn't think so either," the Cornet replied quickly. "They do not look like the kind that roughs it usually. They looked like Dames...ladies, I mean. Probably make more on one assignment than we do on a full year's pay."

"The brunette's dress looked expensive enough. I think they were taught and trained well too."

"But by whom? Boney's men?" Jordan chuckled. "That would be the ultimate treason, I think."

"If they are revolutionaries? Republicans? Who knows?"

The two lower ranked men continued their discussion quietly, both faintly amused by the fact to have identified the two women for what they were. Only gradually, however, they realized that Boyd had not joined the conversation.

"Sir?" Jordan asked after a while, stiffened as he saw Chris join their circle from the corner of his eye.

With visible effort, Boyd shook himself out of his musings. Eyeing the three men, he shook his head.

"You are offering a mere suggestion, Cornet Jordan! That bare facts _could_ point to those women being spies, but nothing assures us that they _are_."

"Sir!" Wharton exclaimed in exasperation. "We cannot risk to find out during the battle, when they have led an enemy squadron to our backs! Better be safe than sorry. Those were your words!"

"We can also not pose wild accusations without a basis in fact, I believe," Chris replied quietly.

Both Wharton and Jordan stiffened and their eyes narrowed.

Before a fight could ensue, Boyd shook his head. "We deal with several cases, I believe, where the women are concerned. One question is: Are they spies?" He paused. "If they are, for whom?"

"That cannot be a question, sir!" Cornet Jordan declared, his face darkening as his temper rose.

The captain's was not far behind. "Second," his voice dropped dangerously, only to rise seconds later to a hiss. "Second, it is our task to find and apprehend Jean le Pilleur! Whether those women are spies is not connected to this."

They were all silent for a moment, Jordan and Wharton momentarily silenced by the intensity of their superior's denial, Chris by confusion. Boyd, on the other hand, felt the thoughts churn in his gut and in his mind. It came all down to one thing: how far had he fallen into denial, into foolish blindness because she - Grace - had taken a much stronger hold of his heart than he should have ever allowed her - allowed any woman - to take?

He could not, did not want to believe that she was involved with Jean. He did not want to believe that she was an agent - for the French, the Russians, the Germans - God knew whom. He did not want to imagine that their nocturnal encounters - filled with passion and a slowly but strongly growing tenderness - was no more than a ploy to gain information.

Yet the facts...

"What about the miniature then? You found it amongst Jean le Pilleur's possessions in that barn! That is your connection!" Wharton exclaimed, suddenly furious.

"The...?" Chris stared at them for a moment, uncomprehending, before he snorted. Then he laughed. "You are joking, good man!" he finally cried. "G... The woman in that miniature a spy? Even connected to Jean? You are losing your mind, if you ever had one!"

"Excuse me?" Cornet Jordan demanded on behalf of the Lieutenant. His stance was turning into a threatening position, ready to do a strike of honour.

Chris, however, did not see the danger, or was simply too far gone in his excitement to be interested. "How dare you accuse her so outrageously! This woman, a spy? Impossible!"

Wharton shook his head, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. "I know what I know." He wanted to say more, but closed his mouth again when Chris threw his hands up and turned around.

"I believe I will join this conversation again when you are making sense once more!"

Then he stalked off in a huff.

The remaining three men watched him leave, part bewildered, part suspicious. Boyd was quietly amused by the temper of their newest addition, an opinion neither Wharton nor Jordan shared. Without even looking at each other, they consented to keep an even closer eye on the stranger in their midst.

Boyd turned to look at them. "Despite his somewhat unrestrained denial, Chris does make a point, gentlemen. Our accusation can easily be refuted, if we cannot offer more substantial evidence against the women."

"If they are spies, sir, the only witnesses they will offer are those on their side, working with them," Wharton quietly offered.

"I am aware of it, Lt. We do need stronger evidence, though." He sighed, desperately willing this conversation, this whole case, to be over and done with. "It also does not resolve the connection with Jean. I still believe more strongly that this portrait came into the barn by coincidence, not by the women's...cooperation. All we know about Jean points to our target being a man. A man amongst a group of men, though I do not doubt the presence of quite a few wenches in their group."

For a short sardonic smile, the three men were in agreement.

Then Boyd continued. "We have seen the raided storages, we have seen their storage places, we have seen the corpses of their victims...the approach is clever, I have to give them that. Clever and strategic... But there is no subtlety in their attacks."

"It's in and out, no matter who dies..."

"Not female strategy..."

The drum signal of another review and drill session sounded, effectively ending the discussion.

As they made their way to their horses, neither Wharton nor Jordan were convinced or particularly calmed by their superior's opinion. His stubbornness and his denial were unusual, singularly due to _that_ woman.

Boyd, on the other hand, was not calm either. How could he be?

If anything, this exchange had proved that Grace... Grace had instilled a degree of affection for her in him that was beginning to make him forget what he was supposed to know.

* * *

><p>The drill came and went as well as was to be expected. There were constant changes to the exercises and a degree of hysterics in the shouted orders that caused most soldiers to pick up on the nervousness as well. None of them was in doubt anymore that Napoleon Bonaparte would strike within a few days.<p>

But none of them knew how soon it would be.

One squadron of the 11th Light Dragoons, however, was not only worried by the direction of the French advance, but also by the distraction of their commanding officer.

Boyd gave his orders, kept a constant and merciless eye on the execution of his orders, but each of his men could see just how full his mind was.

The new man, Chris, fit in well, they had to give him that, even though Lt. Wharton and Cornet Jordan kept watching him from narrowed eyes. Chris stared back at them, his expression indicating anger and unease in equal measure.

Boyd ignored it, just as he ignored the dark looks from his soldiers. He went through the motions automatically, confident in his men's ability to function under pressure. They had proved it in Spain, a few of them in America as well. They knew how to fight, they even knew how to use guerilla tactics, learned with heavy losses down in the Peninsula. That was not his worry. Focussing on the exercises before him, he could even push Grace out of his mind - well, into a corner - but like every other man, his mind was awash with turning over the implication of today's news.

Col. Grant had given them a time limit, which would now be severely shortened by necessity. Once the drill was over, his presence was required in Col. Christie's tent, and Boyd did not doubt that force would be expressed, in order for him to either provide a culprit or give up on the chase.

He could not be satisfied with that.

His assumption was correct, the atmosphere in the Colonel's tent tense and rather unfriendly. Christie's expression could only be called beseeching, as if he was willing Boyd to at least keep his manners at an acceptable level. From experience, both men knew that it would be an uphill struggle.

Col. Money did not hide his nervousness. The fact that, even hours after the event, they could not safely say where Napoleon would strike, grated on his equilibrium. Under different circumstances, he would have Boyd left to Christie, but they were close to the battle and his regiment's reputation was at stake.

Col. Grant, whose presence highlighted the importance of the meeting, seemed to be the calmest of the men waiting, his adjutant, Worrall, fiddly.

"Sirs!" Boyd saluted, his posture more for show than a real feeling of confidence. His time was up, he knew that.

"Captain," Grant started, his voice not betraying any displeasure.

Silence settled once again as Grant, the highest ranking man in the tent made no attempt to continue the conversation. Instead, he slowly paced back and forth, all the time watching Boyd.

"The contraband you've captured last night is significant, Captain," he finally, after what seemed like hours, continued.

Boyd nodded quickly in acknowledgement.

"Two successful raids in a row are quite an achievement."

Once again, Boyd nodded, knowing that there was a large 'but' the Colonel had not yet mentioned.

"But there is no sign of Jean le Pilleur yet, is there?"

"No, sir!"

"Pity," Colonel Grant said quietly, scratching the back of his head. There was a sardonic quality about his words, worse than any direct reprimand.

Being a proud man, Boyd felt the unspoken almost bodily. His jaw clenched, just as his fists, still hanging tightly next to his thighs.

"Sir...!"

"But you have not found any further corpses, have you?"

"No, sir! The marauders we have captured in our raids have not shed any further light onto the dealings and plans either. They are either too unimportant to know anything or instructed very well. There is no significant evidence that gives us hints to Jean's actual identity."

"As I said," Col. Grant continued conversationally, "A pity." He paced a few more times, before building himself up in front of Boyd.

"I gave you a time limit, Captain, and it is almost up as you well know. We do have neither the time nor the resources to keep you merrily skipping around the area looking for random places, hoping that evidence will fall into your lap. We do have a battle on our doorstep! And it will take place here! Right here!"

The last words fell like the lash of a whip and in his mind, Boyd wondered that he did not start and cringe upon hearing them.

The chief of intelligence operations was not done, however. His voice rising, he finally shouted, "You have failed, Captain! A cocked up mission with no success and an investigator who cannot keep his breeches buttoned up!"

Only the long years of military training were what kept Boyd upright. All air seemed to escape him at once, making his throat so tight that he could barely breathe.

He must have paled significantly, though, for Grant once again stood before him, his eyes hard and searching.

For a few moments the atmosphere was explosively thick, then Grant relaxed slightly. "You are one of our best, Boyd, despite your serious lack of judgement these days, which is why I will refrain from any harsh punishment." He paused, then continued in a much more conversational tone. "I also do so because I know your conscious to be a much stronger punisher than I could ever be. I just hope, the wench...," The ensuing pause drove the harshness home even stronger, "...is worth it."

Boyd did not answer, his mind in an overflowing tumble and completely blank at the same time. Caught between violent protest, demanding satisfaction for slandering her name without knowing her and numbness, he found no middle ground.

The Colonel saw it with interest. "Finding your morals, I see," he said obliquely.

The other men looked on in confusion, yet Boyd suddenly understood. In a moment of mad clarity he also understood that Col. Grant quite possibly knew a lot more about Grace than anybody in this tent would assume or even imagine. The wild rush to ask...questions... was there, but Boyd suppressed it.

It took a moment, but finally Boyd choked out, barely recognising his voice, "Sir...!"

"What do you propose, Captain? The battle is close and during it we will be hard-pressed to spare any thought on a marauder. We are going to fight 'the Monster' to end his reign once and for all." Despite the bleak picture Grant painted, the atmosphere began to slowly calm.

Gaining his equilibrium, Boyd carefully started, "With all due respect, sir, I believe that Jean and his men will force us to spare a thought on them. Their victims so far have been exclusively Englishmen or men closely connected to English military suppliers. Most of the contraband we have apprehended has been stolen from English sources, houses owned by the English, jewellery bought for or by the English..."

"...And you believe that Jean has a grudge against the English?"

"Yes, sir!" Boyd straightened, feeling confident in the factual topic of his investigation. "We are certain that we are dealing with an English deserter, of higher rank."

"...Which points to revenge as the motive, sir." It was Col. Christie who joined the discussion now, relieved to see the tension resolved with Boyd's head still attached to the rest of his body. It had been a close call, he knew that. "If that is so," he continued quickly, "then every English soldier is a target during the battle."

The grave prediction was not without its effect on the gathered men. Col. Grant nodded. "It is in agreement with the latest body that has come to our attention."

Surprised, Boyd stared at him. "Another?"

"Yes," Lt. Worral entered the conversation at a small gesture of his superior. "The first actively serving English soldier. A Lieutenant Felix Gibson. Of the Inniskillings. He was found with a single shot to the back near Wavre. The same face wound as the others, though he was neither bound nor blindfolded."

Worral produced a few sheets of paper from his bag, one with a sketch of the dead man's body's position, the other a fairly detailed sketch of the man's face. "As you can see, the face wound is significant and much clearer in its details this time," he offered.

Boyd took a careful look at the picture. Indeed, the etching of the ring was much more detailed, showing a hazy shape and detail.

Silence elongated once again, as Boyd appraised the sketches in his hand, trying to form a comprehensive assessment. He would have to show to and discuss these new findings with Wharton and Jordan, if possible see the spot where the dead man had been found, but even looking at these things, a vague idea was beginning to form in his mind.

Something was building before his inner eye, unfocussed yet, but Boyd could feel it in his blood. The trail was there and he had just stepped onto it.

"I repeat my earlier question, Captain." Col. Grant's voice shook him out of his thoughts. "What do you propose to do?"

"We need to stop him, sir. We cannot afford good English soldiers being shot in the back by marauders acting as sharpshooters during the battle." Once again, it was Col. Christie who had spoken.

Grant smiled minutely. "I quite agree." His eyes were still on Boyd. "However, how do you intend on doing so?"

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	17. June 15th, Pt III

A/N: A few of my readers expressed a bit of feeling down lately and I hope, this update will help lift your spirits. Certain parts of this chapter certainly...lift...something. Just saying. And warning.

For those who were wondering - yes, Col. Grant does know Grace. But that's not here and now.

Many thanks go to ShadowSamurai83 for her endless patience with my repeated mistakes. It's very much appreciated. *hugs*

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 15th, even later<strong>

There was a light drizzle that night that did not look like it would let up any time soon. It was perfect weather to follow somebody, but to find and read trails it was terrible. Boyd fought his annoyance, fought everything that might pose a threat to the success of their mission tonight.

He followed their task with renewed vigour, determined to forget all distractions. For the moment, he was successful. At least, as long as he kept his eyes on the road, out for traces, and his ears open to any sound that might give them information.

Their task was a double one tonight as they recreated the way that the late Lt. Gibson had gone before meeting his death at the hands of Jean le Pilleur and at the same time tried to gather information on the strength and distribution of French troops in the area.

It had been evening already by the time confirmation in form of orders had come that Napoleon was indeed marching towards the Anglo-Belgian host and not towards the Prussian contingent.

Boyd was not surprised. Field Marshall Blücher had a much more homogeneous army at his disposal, with much more trustworthy and trained men. The colourful contingent under the Duke's command was weaker, much more vulnerable and...they were dependant on the ports providing supplies. There was no doubt, they had the disadvantages on their side.

He was certain that morning would bring battle, and victory did not look likely.

Quite possibly he would be dead in a day...without having seen her again...without...

A bullet whizzing by his head brought Boyd suddenly back to the present.

His reaction was instinctive, a quick duck behind the neck of his horse, his free hand automatically pulling his pistol from its holster.

The four men with him, Wharton, Jordan, Gaskell and Linster, automatically moved into defensive positions, ready to strike back immediately. They had trained and used the strategy often since learning it the hard way at _El Bodon_, so much so that it had become routine.

The skirmish was brief, a few more bullets exchanged, a few cuts with their sabres and the superior drill of the soldiers won out.

The light was low, but even without it, it became obvious that at least one of their attackers had paid the highest price for his audacity. The body lay at an unnatural angle, half fallen out of a bush, the twigs snapped under the weight of his body.

Both Wharton and Jordan dismounted quickly, turning the body over.

"Bloody hell!" Jordan exclaimed. "It's a woman!"

* * *

><p>She was waiting for him inside the little structure they had met at for the last few nights. A coat around her shoulders and a blanket over her legs proved that she had been waiting for some time. Beside her stood a small lantern, which considering that they were so close to a stack of hay actually made him nervous.<p>

She looked sleepy, exhausted even, and somehow that did not surprise him. The day had been long and tiring, the excitement and fear of the news affecting everybody.

"I did not expect you would come tonight," she started and it took Boyd a moment to realize that this mundane opening was probably the most civil thing she had ever said to him. It might also have been the longest sentence she had ever spoken to him, their previous conversations marked by heated gasps and words of desire and pleasure.

He smiled briefly, though it ended in a grimace.

"You are hurt," she whispered, pulling him down onto the hay next to her.

The lantern did not give much light, but even in the semi-darkness he could see the concern in her expression, before her hands cradled his face and gently pushed him to look aside. With tender fingers, she prodded his cheek up to his temple, her thumb coming away with a stain of dried blood.

Until this moment, Boyd had not even been aware of the injury, slight as it seemed to be. There was only a minor burn, along with a light headache. Their discovery earlier had weighed too heavy on his or his men's minds to care about their own injuries.

"It is just a scratch, nothing bad, Grace," he replied, but leaned into her touch nonetheless.

They both stopped short all of a sudden.

"You know my name?" she asked.

He nodded.

For long moments she held his gaze directly, as if willing him to elaborate or gauge whether she could trust him or not. That was a part Boyd had not closely considered before - in his turmoil over whether he could trust Grace, he had not once considered that she might need to trust him as well. Her eyes were intense, boring into him, laying his soul bare before her.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, there was a minute smile curling around the corners of her mouth. "I know that you soldiers value the strategic advantage above all else, Captain, but do you not believe that giving me your name might be advantageous to the both of us this time?"

Her eyes glinted with a hint of mischief and despite himself, he found himself smiling back. Leaning forward, he quickly but gently kissed her mouth. Her smile widened, but at the same time an eyebrow rose.

"It's Peter."

He half-expected her to pull back and extend her hand for a formal introduction, but she did nothing of the sort. Instead, she turned and with a ripping sound that seemed to echo in the small hut, pulled a small strip of fabric from her underskirt. Gently and with obvious experience, she rubbed the dried blood from the side of his face.

They were quiet again, both caught in the cocoon they were in. She was so close, her legs brushing against his through their clothing, yet he was certain he could feel the heat of her body warming his. Her fingers, as they held his head, were gently drumming a tattoo into his skin, as if she was marking him. Every nerve ending he seemed to have in his face was drawn to the touch of her fingers. Every touch was a tingle, a shiver that rushed through his body.

Boyd was not a young man anymore, had learned over the years of campaigns and his unhappy marriage to contain the carnal desires of his body, but the slightest touch of hers, the shortest glimpse of creamy skin, now covered in goose bumps, even the smallest whiff of her scent drove his body into a frenzy of arousal he had not even known as a lad.

She was just as affected by their proximity, he could see it. Her breathing was becoming heavier by the moment, the colour of her eyes darkening. Even though she still seemed focussed on tending to his wound, her eyes constantly darted to his mouth and every time, there was a hitch in her breath.

"Grace..." He almost breathed her name, making her look up at him sharply.

The blue was burning like a cold fire, greedy with want. The lady her words proved her to be was disappearing quickly, to be replaced by the woman who was beginning to consume him completely.

The cloth in her hand dropped to the ground as she began pushing his open uniform jacket from his shoulders. Even before it had fallen, her hands were on his shirt, all but ripping it open. Her lips were on his skin, as if she needed to drink from him to still a thirst.

Her aggression reverberated through him as well, setting his body on fire. He wanted her, now, all night. But he wanted her entire body, fully bared to his gaze and his touch.

This might be the last night they could meet, maybe the last night either of them lived. Boyd wanted to make it count for all that.

With a little manoeuvring, the buttons at the back of her dress were undone, allowing him to peel the material away from her damp skin. The corset beneath it annoyed him, as much as it did her, for she impatiently helped him tug and pull and push to undo the laces and have it away with.

The candle in the lantern was flickering inside its container, throwing smaller and larger shadows over Grace's pale skin as she slowly sank back onto her coat.

Boyd followed the movement with his eyes, no other thing in the world in his focus than the play of dark and light on her skin. She was not a young woman anymore, he had known that. She'd had children, he had imagined, could see it now. But her skin looked soft. Warm. Fragrant.

Silently, he leaned over her. Beginning at her collarbone, he slowly, ever so slowly, let his tongue travel downwards.

Warm. Fragrant, just like he remembered.

One touch was not enough, though.

Again and again his lips and tongue found her skin, lavished the soft expanse with kisses, nipped with possessive greed and enflamed with heated licks.

Her hands raked through his hair, pulling him closer, guiding his touches to where she wanted them. She was not timid, not afraid to let him know what pleased her. That, Boyd decided as he paused for a moment to connect his eyes to the blue fire of hers, was probably the most intoxicating thing about her.

Suddenly, her hand slipped from his back to cup his hardness through the cloth of his breeches. With a growl, he surged into her hand. The grip he had on her hip tightened involuntarily, his growl followed by her moan.

She arched into his touch, her whole body writhing seeking further touch.

Looming over her, he pushed her head back to bare her neck to him, a move she eagerly followed. Beginning with her neck, he began another trek over her exposed skin, this time divesting her of her dress and undergarments altogether.

For a moment, they were both quiet as he knelt at her feet and intently looked up and down her body. Grace blushed for a moment, but her bashfulness was quickly replaced by the intense desire he had seen earlier. Her gaze was riveted to the bulge in his breeches, literally growing under her scrutiny.

"Take them off," she breathed just as quietly as he had her name earlier. Yet it was a command, unmistakable in its force and meaning.

Without hesitation he obeyed, sighing in almost relief as his erection sprang free.

She did not stop her scrutiny, just as he had looked at her earlier.

There was a small smile of triumph on her face, tinged with a hint of possessiveness. Boyd could not help the tingle of pride up and down his spine. He wanted to say something, probably rather ungentlemanly, but a quick shake of her head stopped him.

In a move that surprised him, she suddenly knelt before him, her arms slipping around his torso and her mouth descending on his neck.

Within moments they fell back onto the hay, bodies entwined, hands and mouths eagerly roaming. It seemed to take forever, but when he finally thrust into her body for the first time that night, Boyd felt that he was coming home.

As he exploded in a wave of lust and pleasure later, her name ripped from his throat like a prayer to all deities of the world.

Their eyes were still connected, even as she almost shook apart in her own climax beneath the weight of his body.

Never...

Never before...

In the morning, he would find bite and scratch marks all over his body, but he could not be bothered by it, because for once he knew that he would not wake up alone.

From the look on her face as she quietly buried into the warmth of his embrace, Grace knew that as well.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	18. June 16th, Pt I

A/N: Another chapter, to mark the unbelievable thing I achieved yesterday *is very proud*. Though this isn't a very happy part, it still needs to be done, becaause we are now obviously moving into battle proper. Hope you enjoy nonetheless. At this point, I'd like to thank all those of you who have read and reviewed so far. I'd like to thank ShadowSamurai83 very much for all the patience and encouragement. And the OHT and other great people who lift me up when needed.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 16th, 1815<strong>

As he had predicted in a lazy moment the night before, Boyd awoke in the hut, his neck stinging a little from the scratches she had given him. More importantly, though, his other prediction was correct. She was still there, still sleeping. The early morning light, not yet dawn, threw her pale skin into an even harsher hue, making it appear like cold marble. Boyd knew, though, that it was soft.

In his arms, Grace shivered and burrowed deeper into his embrace. He felt it with a smile and pulled the blanket higher up over her body.

In the distance, he could hear artillery fire and he closed his eyes for a moment. There was no time to enjoy their intimate repose, possibly explore her body again in the growing light.

Those were French artillery cannons, heralding the beginning of the battle.

Carefully, he extricated himself from her, hoping not to wake her. It was a vain one, for she stirred and blinked sleepily at him.

Boyd knelt down next to her, hastily pulling on his jacket. In a tender gesture, he cupped her cheek. "Go hide, Grace, " he whispered. "It's a day of battle."

Her hand closed quickly around his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, surprisingly desperate. "Be careful!"

He smiled. "I...I will be."

Something churned in the depth of her eyes. Something deep and untamed that tugged at the strings of his heart. "Come back to me tonight," she said in a choked whisper, her eyes daring him to disagree.

Boyd did not see another option, did not even want to.

He promised.

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><p>Approaching the settlement of tents where his own was pitched, Boyd was surprised to find it still calm and quiet. Though already past six and with artillery faintly resounding in the air, the men looked tense, certainly, but made no move to enter the ensuing battle.<p>

Wharton and Jordan sat before his tent, Chris alongside them, and though they all gave him a penetrating look, nobody said a word. Jordan wordlessly stretched out a hand with a cup of coffee, or what counted for it, the slight smell of brandy emanating from the cup.

"Col. Christie wishes to see you, sir!" he reported.

"Marching orders?"

"Not yet, sir!" Wharton replied. "Col. Christie probably wants to assess them with you beforehand."

Slowly drinking his coffee, Boyd watched the three men. Their silence did nothing to disguise their disapproval, at least as far as Boyd was concerned. Being their superior officer, he did not have to give a moment's thought about their consent, but in battle, he depended on their loyalty, just as they depended on his.

The tales of officers being shunted by their men for misconduct were well-known. If they had to march without him, because he was rather spending his time in the arms of a woman than fight, the loss of face was not to be born. He would rather shoot himself than lose face before his men.

Instantly, he resolved to spent the following night - if they were still alive - in the camp.

"_Come back to me tonight._" Her voice ghosted through his mind before he had even finished the previous thought. His decision wavered. Her or his reputation? His reputation or Grace?

Squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing his sigh with a sip of coffee, Boyd pushed both away and made his way towards the Colonel's tent.

Christie was pacing his tent, making the small room even smaller. He looked nervous, but still in control, which the Captain found strangely soothing.

"Boyd... On your way back, what did you see?" There were no pleasantries, no time for anything.

For a moment, Boyd was stunned, then answered carefully. "The artillery fire we can hear is much stronger further South East. It seems as if they French turn their artillery towards the Prussians rather than us."

"Anything else?"

Usually, Christie's face was expressive and open and only the fact that he was an incredibly amiable man saved him from social embarrassment. Therefore, Boyd found the closed up mien of the other man disconcerting.

"A sizeable troupe of the Dutch forces are moving purposefully South East as well. Whom or what they plan to meet, I cannot say."

"English troops with them?"

Boyd shrugged. "I would assume that English forces quartered with them move as well."

Christie shook his head. "You are aware, Boyd, that only these meagre information are what keeps you from severe punishment for your private excursions? Col. Grant seemed to tacitly accept what you are doing on your own time, Boyd, but it will not remain so." The Colonel's voice rose with every word, his frustration and unease no longer disguised. "We are at war actively now! If this goes wrong, you are going to be charged with cowardice at best! Treason at worst! I will not be able to protect you then, not with old Hartford still aiming for your head!" Brushing both of his hands over his bald head in pure frustration, Christie shook his head. "Pull yourself together, man! This is not the time to discover the cavalier in yourself!"

"Yes, sir!" Boyd sharply saluted. Both men knew that nothing but a direct order would keep him from going again and even then, he would try to evade it as much as possible. It was typical for Boyd, one of the reasons why he had not risen further in the ranks, despite his military and investigative achievements. "May I go?"

"No!" Christie growled back. "We do have actual business at hand, and marching orders for in an hour!"

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><p>The battle at the junction of <em>Quatre<em> _Bras_ started late in the day, when the sun was already high in the sky, and further South at _Ligny_, large formations of the French army were already heavily involved in fighting the Prussian forces.

Only a small contingent under Marshall _Ney_ had remained behind to prevent the Allied troops under the Duke of Wellington from joining forces with the Generals _Blücher_ and _Zieten_. In fact, Napoleon was not even expecting _Ney_'s troops to become involved in any fighting.

It was - mostly - due to the lack of restraint by the young and wild Prince of Orange, who wanted to outshine his English commander and find glory for himself and his fellow countrymen.

The skirmishes on both front theatres went on from there for several hours, but with changing luck. Brussels was caught in near hysteria, soldiers who had so far enjoyed themselves there now overeager to join the fray and become heroes.

Or die.

No matter how luck and fate decided the outcome of the battle, losses were imminent on both sides.

Fighting went on from around ten in the morning far into the afternoon. Often times the French seemed superior, better drilled, better skilled, better equipped and war hardened. Their artillery ripped large holes into the Allied formations. Where grenades exploded, soldiers fell - only few of them dead instantly, many more wounded and left to die. Beneath the dust and the soot from artillery fire foot soldiers marched forward, almost blind to what was happening around them, often only finding sight again mere feet before the enemy. In shock, in fright, many turned around and fled, without having fired a shot. Many of them died in the chaos and confusion.

The cavalry rushed forward, blind as well, horses frightened. There were few units of theirs involved, many of their attacks more for show than real military effect.

Yet some of them, including the 11th Light Dragoons, followed a great deal of activities. The regiment seemed to be caught amidst the main action, rushing between infantry units and canons, to gather quick information, conquer single canons or pull comrades out of the fray.

Colonels Money and Christie watched it with proud eyes, if they got the chance. While Christie often times joined the men, especially in rescue missions, Money directed and redirected their movements. Their divided duty served well as always, allowing the men to make a nuisance of themselves to the French.

However, as the day wore on and luck left them more and more, the Colonels quietly conferred under the cover of a small hill. The battle was going worse, the number of losses in men, horses and material rising without any countable result. The French stood well and stout, there was no hope to overrun them by the time of five in the afternoon. Yet they did not push their advantage too hard.

The signal for withdrawal was only a matter of time and thus the Colonels decided to attempt to retrieve as many wounded men as possible.

The order was quickly given to Captains Boyd, Cavendish and Drake, who executed it with utmost and swift precision.

Col. Money shook his head when the drums finally began to announce the fall back. "What a waste of men," he said quietly, noticing the number of stretchers, carefully and dangerously pushed back to the rear of their lines. The number of abandoned horses and dead bodies was staggering. "We are going to lose more men trying to retrieve our wounded. Too many."

"We leave none back here, if we do not have to," Christie replied, sliding off his horse and following Lt. Wharton, who was just pushing by their Commanding officers. As expected, Captain Boyd's squadron worked efficiently and as far as could be judged at this point, had once again barely lost a man.

Col. Money appraised the proceedings, always watchful of the French movements in the vicinity, ready to have his men run, if need arose. While not as daring a man as Christie at times was, his strategic prowess was well-respected. He was the man to keep track of progress or lack thereof.

It took almost another hour before the drums signalled a yet more focussed retreat. The Dragoons, along with the infantry men dispersed between them, followed the summons, many of them weary, many of them in shock.

A large number of them had not yet seen actual combat, having joined only because they had expected this to be jolly good sport. The torn up bodies of their dead comrades made them silent and dead in their eyes. They marched, more than enough staggered, back towards their encampments, constantly expecting another bullet whizzing by their head or actually finding its target and killing them.

Yet the French, though clearly victors of the day, did not follow. Quite the contrary, they retreated as well, allowing the confused and chaotic allied troops an easy way back to their encampments.

Chivalry was not dead on the battlefield, it seemed.

But maybe it was foolishness instead.

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><p>In the encampment at <em>Enghien<em>, the 11th Light Dragoons, or what was left of them, gathered quietly around their fires. Brandy was drunk, meat was cooked and eaten, along with day-old bread. The sky was beginning to fill with clouds, grey and heavy, heralding rain.

It did not improve the men's mood.

The regiment had gone into this day's events with an unprecedented strength of almost 950 men. More than a hundred of them had not returned to the camp with them. Though most of them had not suffered death but injury, there was little doubt that the toll would rise before the week was out.

They were all tired - physically and mentally. They were dirty - full of soot, muck and blood. They all had killed enemies, seen friends fall.

A battle had been fought.

And lost.

Yet they were still alive.

Without summons, but bound by comradeship, the men slowly gathered together in a loose circle around the fires near the Colonels' tents. In silence they raised their mugs, cups and tumblers, filled with brandy. They did not need words to salute the men they had lost today.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	19. June 16th, Pt II

A/N: I've realized that the deadline I have set myself for this story is approaching rather quickly and we still have quite some ground to cover. So, I guess we just continue, right?

Enjoy, while I keep stirring the mystery a little more.

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><p><strong>June 16th, later<strong>

The men did not speak but their expressions were not happy at finding themselves back in the saddle so soon. After a day of battle and horrors of seeing friends and comrades fall they all wanted to drop down somewhere and find forgetfulness - whether it was in drink, in gamble or in a willing woman.

Instead they were back in the saddle, riding towards an encounter that might prove deadly as well.

It had been just after tea when the lad had slipped into the encampment. Most men had seen him before, thus not bothered. Boyd and his team, however, paid more attention, aware that the boy's return meant intelligence of serious nature.

There was a short, whispered conversation, urgent in its tone, then the Captain had first disappeared into his tent along with Lt. Wharton, Cornet Jordan and the new man, where they remained for a while. Later Boyd had marched purposefully over to Col. Christie's accommodation, where the officers had remained for some duration.

Afterwards the order had come quietly and quickly.

None of the men grumbled, at least not loudly, but it was obvious from their posture that most of them had rather spent the dark hours in a more comfortable situation.

Captain Boyd was aware what he was asking much of his soldiers. They had fought and worked valiantly throughout the day, a credit to their uniforms. If possible, he would have gladly granted them any rest or debauchery they craved. In all honesty, his own wishes were focussed on a hut in a meadow, much more than his current situation.

Yet Emile's return had brought intelligence that promised a breakthrough in their investigation. Amidst the preparation for battle it seemed that Jean le Pilleur had either become nervous or careless. Quiet tinkles of rumour had spread throughout the land these previous days and today Emile had confirmed it. Even Chris seemed to have heard about it before.

Boyd knew that it was still not completely assured, that his trust in those two informants was no more than a hope, yet his gut feeling told him that they were truthful and correct.

Tonight was dangerous, but it offered them their best shot so far the take hold of the marauder and his friends.

The meeting was to take place in the outbuildings of a farm, Emile had said, the farm as good as abandoned since the farmer and his sons had left to join the _Grande Armée_ on its campaign to Russia. None had returned, leaving the women to fend for themselves and fail. Most of the buildings had been abandoned and the women would probably happily be silent, if the price was right. Boyd did not doubt that the price had been right...or deadly.

In loose formation they approached the building, leading their horses behind them. The reins had been reduced to leather, the horses hooves wrapped up, in order to make as little noise as possible. The wind was lively tonight, almost masking their sounds, but they could not risk anything.

Quietly Boyd, Wharton and Jordan crept forward, their pistols in their free hands. The others waited a few steps back, holding the horses and standing guard, in case the marauders had their own.

Covered by leafy shrubbery, they gazed towards the building. A fire was burning in front of it, many men gathered there. Unlike the usual clichés, the marauders and their partners did not wear distinguishing clothes - breeches and shirts, a few jackets and coats. A few of them were military, from all sides, but it mattered little. It was the same in the encampments - soldiers plundering dead enemies or comrades during battle. Not very moral, but usual. In fact, the meeting looked remarkably like a small field encampment of soldiers.

Still, those were not of their contingent, nor was it a squadron or a regiment of the French.

Near the fire, a small group of men had gathered and while two of them did not seem to fit into the scene, thus showing them as the 'business partners', it was the three other men that caught Boyd's interest. One seemed to be average in everything, mousy hair, average height and build, hardly interesting, except for the fact that he had military bearing and was included into the small circle.

"All at least former regulars, I would like to wager," Jordan whispered quietly next to him. Neither Boyd nor Wharton gave an answer, both agreeing and yet avoiding to be caught by making more noise.

The man on the right garnered Boyd's attention much more. Tall, lanky, dark hair. It was only the split of a second, but Boyd was convinced that this was the man he had struck down days earlier to save himself and Grace.

His heart beat faster. They were indeed moving closer and for that alone this nightly excursion was worth the effort.

However, the tall, lanky man did not seem to be the leader, not Jean.

The man standing between the other two, however, must be.

Blood was pumping faster, making Boyd's heart beat even stronger. The first sight of their target. He could feel his excitement rise, though it could hardly be said this was due to the impressive sight Jean le Pilleur offered. Rather on the short and stocky side, military service had obviously not done his athleticism any favours. Maybe he had never been a physically well-built man. The round face was plain, as far as it could be assessed from the distance. Hair some tone of average brown. Nothing interesting.

In fact, in the streets and decently dressed, Jean le Pilleur would not stand out of the masses at all. Compared to his reputation, the man actually disappointed. One could much more easily imagine the man sitting in an office than running a successful band of criminals. From the distance he did not look like a murderer, yet in Boyd's experience that meant nothing.

With a small gesture, he ordered his soldiers back with him to where their comrades were waiting.

"The meeting is bigger than I would like," Boyd quietly said, "but we have no choice. This is our chance to capture Jean le Pilleur."

Quietly the men mounted their horses, pulled sabres out of their sheets, cocked pistols. Praying for the moment of surprise to act in their favour, Boyd gestured for the charge to begin.

They broke out of the shrubbery with a cry spurring their horses on, but even in the first moments of their attack, the men knew that success would not be on their side.

The meeting had been ended already, men running from the fire, taking hold of their horses and fleeing. Jean and his two closest comrades were the first to go, leaving the minions to clear up the site. Clear up, unfortunately, they did well.

The bullets whizzed by their heads from the beginning, the marauders able fighters and determined. Boyd could feel a burning sensation, but did not take the time to investigate. Losing sight of their enemies would prove deadly. Those men knew their business.

Blindly, he struck out at everything that moved close enough to be reached by his sabre, Arast weaving and retreating without spoken command. The horse acted well, calmly and serenely. Blood gathered and dried on the blade of his sabre, mixing and mingling until it could no longer be said whose was who's.

Just as blindly he fired, only instinctively aware who was friend and who was foe. There was no time for it and he could only hope that the years of drill had trained the men so well that they saw to saving their hide while upsetting their enemy.

The skirmish lasted only a few minutes, before - at least momentarily - victory was theirs.

But it was a victory with a bitter aftertaste. Sgt. Gaskell only hung in his saddle, blood wetting his uniform jacket and Boyd was quick to order another man to take care of him.

Most of the marauders had fled, unwilling to prolong a fight where they risked too much for too little gain. The outbuilding, it turned out quickly, was empty of contraband, except several bags of gold. Under different circumstances quite a catch, but here it was only the advance on the business deal the marauders had hoped to strike up tonight. Left in sight of the fire were only a few lower charges who had not fled quickly enough and...the two business partners.

Not bad on one hand.

An incredible and pricey disappointment on the other.

Neither Boyd nor his men could hide it. While it could hardly have been said that the marauders were unaware of someone being on their trail, now they were no longer in any doubt. They also knew where the threat came from, could possibly already attach a name - or would do so within a day or so.

The big men had slipped from their grasp and though he could not explain why, Boyd was certain that they would find another dead body in the morning, with true signs of torture. Not a victim of the battle, but a victim of raging anger.

The men were quiet as they went about their tasks of securing the prisoners and making Sgt. Gaskell comfortable. Disappointment was in their faces, weariness in their movements. It had been a long day with hard labour and little success.

To his left, Boyd could see Chris pulling particularly strongly at the ropes they used to bind their prisoners. In addition to the exhaustion and frustration, there was anger in his expression. Anger...and something akin to hate.

At whom it was directed, Boyd could not fathom. But it worried him.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	20. June 16th, Pt III

A/N: So, Boyd has something that creates a little mystery and the big question is, how Grace will react to that. And just how much of a cock-up of it Boyd can make. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 16th, even later<strong>

He had made his apologies to the men as he left them, barely a mile away from the camp, and turned his horse around. Though they all had raised their eyebrows and he knew that they did not understand and did not approve, they had said nothing.

Neither did he elaborate why he had to leave, had to go and - they all knew that - see some mysterious woman. There was nothing to be done except rest and possibly question their new 'guests', but the latter could wait until morning. Keeping his promise could not.

As he forced Arast into a canter, Boyd could feel something swing against his chest beneath his now open jacket and shirt. He did not need to look to realize that it was the amulet. It had brought him luck today, at least safety, for he was still alive and unhurt.

It was the first time he arrived at their hut by horse and in full field garb, and her lack of surprise at the sight gave him pause. At once suspicion rose violently, but as he had done every time in her presence, he ignored it.

Grace smiled from her position, already settled on a blanket and covered with another one. The lantern was once again stood near the entrance, casting only a low sliver of light. With all the soldiers and marauders roaming the area this place was not so secret any more, they both knew that.

On the positive side, it created an intimacy, a cocoon for the two of them to disappear from the rest of the world. On the negative side...

"Are you going to come here with scratches every night now?" she asked lightly, pointing towards the ripped sleeve of his jacket.

He shrugged, only now noticing the damage done. "In battle it happens."

Carefully, and suddenly bone-weary, he lowered himself down onto the blanket next to her. She moved to accommodate him, her body naturally curving against his. She fit against his side as if they had done this thousands of times before. The movements of her hands as she inspected the scratch and the damage to his clothes were sure and practised. With a pang he realized that he could not fathom where she had acquired the skill. In fact, he knew nothing - nothing about her.

"You are very capable...in handling wounds," he offered after a few minutes of silent companionship. Her touches were soothing and along with the warmth of her body next to his lulling him into tranquillity.

"Thank you," Grace replied absently, still investigating the damage to his sleeve. "I have had some practice over the years."

Boyd stopped inwardly at the careless words. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to make his voice sound casual as he asked, "Have you been here for long?"

Grace cocked her head and looked at him from under half-lowered lashes. There was a smile, easy and artless, as she appraised him. "In Brabant? Not long. A few weeks."

He waited for her to elaborate, his instinctive suspicion gaining force. Naturally, this could be all there was, but he felt that she preferred to be deliberately evasive. And that she was waiting for him to actually disclose what exactly he wanted to know, thus giving her more information than she was willing to reveal.

The sounds of the night around them filled the silence, but they also made the unspoken words between them even more acute. It was Boyd who broke first, just as he had feared. "Why?"

"Why what?" Grace asked.

"Why are you here when there's a battle to happen? It's not safe." The latter, he hoped, would disguise his overly keen interest as the worry a man felt for the safety of his... woman.

Grace smiled, gently but with a definite hint of amusement. "I can...take care of myself."

Rolling his eyes, he shook his head. "I do not doubt that you can, but we are not speaking about a few soldiers here and there. We are speaking of thousands. Ten thousands, in fact!"

This time, Grace could not hold in a sound of amusement. She did not laugh, seeing his frown, but an amused gasp escaped her nonetheless. "Then one...unimportant woman...can slip away to safety."

For a moment, Boyd did not reply, did not know how. Grace's words, once again slipping out casually and carelessly, bothered him. Of course, it was true, amidst masses of people, a single individual could easily slip away unnoticed. One did not need exceptional intelligence to know that, but why had the thought occurred to her? How had Grace found out this little truth?

By accident? By thought?

Or by deliberate training?

"Are you hungry?" she interrupted his thoughts, pulling a small messenger bag to her side.

His thoughts still in disarray, Boyd nodded noncommittally. She took this as confirmation and started to rummage around in the bag. "It's not much, I'm afraid. Just some bread and cheese. Nothing more elaborate to be had out in the country."

"It's alright," he replied, somewhat confused by the sudden domesticity. They had never planned anything, never done an elaborate set-up, though their acquaintance could hardly be called long and therefore not have fallen into any sort of pattern.

Yet there was something almost painfully conjugal about them sitting together on and under shared blankets, sharing the heat of their bodies and her breaking food for him. He had never done this with his wife, not even during their earliest marriage, Mary having been much too refined, much too proper to even consider such a situation.

Now he was here with a woman, all but a stranger, all but a suspect for espionage. And it felt...natural, for the lack of a better word. The knot in his stomach was not from the situation, but from the way it looked.

His frown deepened, even more when he realized that Grace was watching him. There was a bemused expression on her face, showing her deep in thought despite her eyes on him.

"What?"

"You are thinking very deeply." She smiled. "I am not certain I like where I believe your thoughts are taking you."

"Why are you here, Grace?" he blurted out. "What do you seek here?"

She made to answer, calmly and Boyd believed, finally exhaustively, but then she stopped. Her eyes were suddenly wide and her gaze fixed on his chest.

Normally rather flattered by such open appraisal, Boyd could not perceive any ardent notion in her reaction. It was shock.

Following her gaze, his eyes fell on the chain around his neck and the amulet dangling from it.

"Where did you get this from?" Grace's voice was hoarse with emotion.

Boyd did not answer verbally, but instead pulled the amulet up for both of them to see clearly. "I found it."

If anything, her pale face lost even more of its colour, then a flush rose into her cheeks, showing how intensely Grace fought to keep her reaction hidden. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut even, and without opening them, spoke again. "I would not have taken you for a..."

The implication was clear, even though it was not said out loud.

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

It was not a good answer, Boyd knew that, but for a moment he gloried in the fact that it was now him who held the answers and Grace who desperately and unsuccessfully sought them.

Her expression was pained as she opened her eyes again, pained and hurt. She raised a hand to point at the amulet and Boyd could not help but notice that it shook.

"I have not seen... My God." She gasped, quickly pressing a hand against her mouth to stop the sob and the other against her stomach. As if she was trying to stave off a bout of nausea. When she looked at him again, Boyd was shocked to see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

"This was my husband's," she finally managed, though it was toneless and choked.

His eyes widened, though in the back of his mind he had almost presumed that it was so.

"Where did you find it?" she asked again, the tears now obvious in her voice.

"It doesn't matter."

Before Boyd could even realize that this was an unwise thing to say, he felt the nightly cold seeping onto his legs and his side.

Where Grace had been seconds ago, there was only empty space, while her figure quickly disappeared into the shrubbery.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	21. June 17th, Pt I

A/N: The mystery continues, but at least we find out who one of the dead was.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 17th, 1815<br>**

The world awoke with bated breath on the rainy morning of June 17th. The actual news was scarce in the vicinity of Brussels. Rumour was rife, since the battle the day before could hardly be kept a secret as artillery fire had been heard even in town. It was also no secret that the French had - against all hopes - won.

Even those not overly skilled in military matters could fathom that being strategically victorious, the French would press their advantage and wipe out all the Allied troops, thus making the disbelieved and horrible miracle true. Those priding themselves in some skills on the matter were, in fact, surprised that this had not already happened.

Though reports were confusing and scattered, it was clear that despite having lost their battles, both Wellington's troops as well as the Prussians had been able to retreat with most of their units intact. If they had a quiet day today, they would even be able to gather more men and regroup, and this way make up for the losses of the previous day.

Strategically, this would be a beginners mistake on Napoleon's side, one nobody expected the seasoned general to make.

Yet...he had already given away precious hours...

* * *

><p>There was hectic activity in the encampment at <em>Enghien<em>, with soldiers rushing to and fro, leading horses, carrying barrels and boxes of ammunition. Fires were doused, marching packs stocked and shouldered, tents taken down.

Though it did not seem absolute and final, it was obvious that the encampment would be - at least partially - abandoned.

The lower charges followed their orders, went through their tasks, most of them but ignorant of where their destination was. Many were not pleased having to go to unknown places without previous knowledge, others relieved to remain unaware. It was the age old system, done so thousands of times all over the world before.

The rain, heavy and torrential at times, made their tasks harder, even more exhausting. Packing up, marching with a full pack, always in wait for yet another skirmish on the way and a battle at the end of their future interminable march, always in wait for certain death... very few were optimistic in any way.

In addition, yesterday's defeat pressed heavily onto them.

Captain Boyd watched the proceedings from the entrance of his tent, his face giving away none of the thoughts going around his head. To the men who took the time to chance a glance at him, he presented the picture that was the basis for his reputation, his legend even. Stoic, unmoving, unmoved.

Most of the men had, of course, heard that last night the Captain had left his squadron on their way back from a secret skirmish and come back several hours later. The immediate order into the Colonel's tent had not remained secret either, and there was whisper that as a punishment, the Captain's squadron would be in the first of the front lines in the upcoming skirmishes and battle until either their superior officers declared their punishment over, or - which seemed more likely - the entire squadron was dead.

Boyd did not acknowledge any of this, instead appraised the progress the breaking up of the camp. They had brought back good men last night, especially the 'business partners' - weak characters, the both of them.

Neither was a match for a hardened criminal like Jean, that much they had already gathered, and neither was a match for their determined interrogation.

The captain watched how the canvas of a tent fell, one of the men - barely old enough to hold a rifle up - being hit by it first and then by the tent pole. The lad screamed in pain and on instinct, Boyd crossed over to pull the lad away.

Not waiting for anything, he pulled out his flask and held it out to the boy. "Drink!"

The lad shook his head, valiantly fighting to quell his tears, but with little success.

"Drink!" Boyd insisted.

Finally, and with shaking fingers, the young man took the flask and hastily swallowed a small mouthful. Too hastily, for seconds later he coughed and grimaced in pain. Boyd did not react.

"What's your name, boy?"

Instead of hearing an answer, he found himself confronted with wide eyes. "Mark Lennon."

Though the next question was most logical in his mind, Boyd didn't ask it. Young Mr. Lennon looked no older than 15. "Which squadron?" he asked instead.

"Cavendish, sir!"

"Hmm...a bit mouthy and stubborn , that Cavendish, but it's a good squadron." He smiled briefly and patted the boy on the shoulder, before he turned away, back to his tent. "They'll take good care of you."

"Where are we going, sir?"

Boyd stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Southeast, young man. To Waterloo."

* * *

><p>Inside the arrest tent, Cornet Jordan tapped his foot on the ground in barely controlled annoyance. Their two 'guests' had regained some of their previous haughtiness upon the departure of Captain Boyd.<p>

Jordan was used to be seen as a man inferior to others, due to his heritage and skin colour. In earlier years, his frustration and anger had often gotten the better of him, causing him unrelenting troubles. He was a good officer, could hope for a promotion once this battle was done and he still lived. His superiors in the regiment appreciated his skills, the regiment itself offering little of the usual slights. There was little he found to complain about his lot, yet situations like this...

Apart from the men's undue hauteur in their treatment of him as a man, it was their uncooperativeness that frustrated him. They did not have time for petty games while the camp was breaking up, getting ready to leave for battle.

Boyd had been right in their discussions last night, they needed more information on the marauders. It would be bad enough being caught between the French and their own men during the battle, chaos and poor visibility enough to needlessly fell many men. They could not afford having a band of marauders gunning for random English squadrons, just for entertainment.

"Your 'business partner'," the Cornet began again, leaning forward to make use of his appearance of superior physical strength. He smiled pleasantly, though it quickly turned into a predatory smile. "...Put you in an unenviable position, gentlemen. Your money is gone, your business is gone, and now you are facing a trial before one of His Majesty's courts."

One of the men, who still kept their names to themselves, snorted indelicately.

"You doubt me?" Jordan continued pleasantly.

The same man spat at Jordan's feet, only to find himself pinned against the tent pole seconds later. Boyd had entered the tent without being heard - a skill even his own men admired - and taken hold of their prisoner's neck. His fist closed around the other man's neck. Slowly, but with steady pressure.

All haughtiness was gone as the man gasped for air, struggled to get free. But Boyd's grip was unshakable.

Wharton had stepped into the way of their other prisoner, preventing him from coming to help his comrade. Thus it was one on one, with no question about the winner.

To everybody's surprise, it was Chris who broke the tense situation, stepping in with a sardonic smile. "I think, dear sir, the Captain wishes for you to apologize for the dishonour you have done to His Majesty's uniform and one of their prouder wearers," he - not unkindly - informed their prisoner. "I also recommend that you do so at once, for the Captain is not known for exhaustive patience."

There was another moment, during which the only sound in the tent was the man's gasps, before he finally, barely audible choked out something that could be construed as a 'sorry'. Boyd softened his grip minutely and raised his eyebrows in invitation.

The other man repeated, this time louder and a little clearer.

The pattern was repeated several time before Boyd finally let go. The four soldiers watched dispassionately as their two prisoners scrambled back to their feet, one of them still rather blue in the face.

"That will get you a court-martial!" the companion screeched.

Once again it was Chris who replied. "After you have been tried and found guilty of collaborating with the enemy, theft of British military property, treason..." He smirked minutely, his face drawn in a way that Boyd found suddenly strangely familiar. "Shall I go on?"

Lt. Wharton righted the stools that had been thrown over before and motioned for the men to sit down again.

They did so reluctantly, their eyes throwing virtual daggers at their captors.

Cornet Jordan nodded politely and then started again. "If you do not want to talk about your business partners, why don't we start with your companion? Your late companion, Ms. Cummings, to be precise."

The men's faces were a mask of confusion, but the four soldiers were not deterred. "We have found papers in the lady's possession that bear a striking similarity to those we found amongst yours," Wharton continued, showing signs of sardonic amusement as well. "Your partner? Or the competition, getting there faster than you did?"

* * *

><p>If you just looked out of the barn's door, the world was deceptively peaceful. There was nobody in sight and behind you, there was the reassuring noise of a cow, a pig and a few chickens. Outside the world was green, though tinged with grey now that the sky was overcast and it rained.<p>

It seemed like the perfect bucolic idyll, if only they had been unaware of how deceptive it was. The few animals were a sign of poverty, meagre and hardly enough to support a family of 18. The barn held few provisions that would last no longer than a few days and with the many soldiers roaming the land - tired, hungry and dirty - it was doubtful that the family would benefit from them.

From afar, one could hear the sounds of armies on the move, heavy machinery drawn by hardworking horses, the harmonized steps of regiments in marching order, occasional shouts.

It was as if the land held its breath, waiting for the deathly power to unleash and wash everything away with its lethal force.

The two women tried to ignore all this in their attempt to rest as much as possible. They had discussed the situation long into the night, both with the farmer, his eldest daughter and one of the sons. The boy, Emile, had brought news from the nearby encampments, where he had managed to make himself useful by doing odd jobs of often questionable kind. The intelligence he brought was the easiest way to gather any, though, and the women did not ask.

The older of the two, Lady Grace Foley, found it exceptionally difficult to rest. She had barely slept the previous night, though this was not due to the intense discussions they had held. Yes, those had been intense and worrying, but her mind could not fully focus on what was said.

Time and again the scene played before her mind's eye. Time and again she attempted to make sense of it.

He did not know who she was. He could not. But that was a small mercy.

The miniature... She could not fathom how it could have found its way here. It had to have been lost in the Colonies, possibly stolen from a dead body. Grace had been involved in military life long enough to know that theft from dead or dying comrades was a usual business in all armies. Jack would have provided a worthwhile target for any soldier intent on stealing.

Was this now the final confirmation for a fact with which she had dealt almost three years now? Was this the unchangeable truth?

Still...a piece of jewellery lost in America, how could it have possibly found its way into Peter's hands? What did this mean for his...trysts...with her?

Grace knew he did not trust her completely, but could she trust him?

"Madame?"

"Mi...Grace?"

Shaking out of her thoughts, Grace stared into the concerned faces of Ms. Lockhart and the farmer's daughter, Stella. "I apologize," she ventured quietly, feeling a blush rising in her cheeks.

"Do you feel well?" Ms. Lockhart's concern seemed to increase, while the young farmer's daughter held up a coarse mug with steaming liquid. They had managed to acquire a small bag of real tea - at a horrendous price - but if it helped the mother, then it was no more than a small sign of gratitude.

"How is your mother?" Grace asked quietly, sipping some of the herbal tea the family drank. It was warm at least and in this weather and with her thoughts as much in turmoil as they were, she was grateful for the additional warmth.

"Better," young Stella replied eagerly. "Your gifts..." Seeing pointed glances, she quickly corrected herself. "...The supplies you have brought do help. The bébé slept quietly and Mama as well."

"How does she look this morning?"

"Much better, Madame."

Grace nodded and thoughtfully took a small helping of the coarse porridge that served as their breakfast. At home in London she would not have considered this worthy of even a glance in the kitchens, but here it would have to last for as long as possible, thus demanding her that she actually eat it.

"What about the armies?" Ms. Lockhart picked up the conversation, steering back to their original concern. "Do you know anything?"

"Oui, my brother Emile says that they all move away from the camp. They pack the tents and the rifles and the canons."

"Where?" Grace asked more eagerly then she realized was strictly necessary.

Stella regarded her curiously. "Emile helped soldiers at _Enghien_, Madame."

Ms. Lockhart shrugged while she kept a close eye on her mistress. Ever since returning from her...rendezvous...last night, she had been dispirited, showing little presence of mind in conversations. Apparently, several hours of rest had not relieved her of her unease. "_Enghien_ is a large camp. If they all leave..."

Grace buried her face in her hands and breathed deeply for a moment. "Napoleon did not press his advantage yesterday. That gives the Duke a chance to regroup his troops for another, larger battle, if the Prussians do come as well." She paused for a few moments, drawing in deep breaths. "We will not be safe here. Nobody will be safe here."

The two younger women eyed her with worried frowns, the fatalistic words having quite an effect on their composure. Neither could imagine though what really occupied the lady's mind. As she had spoken the philosophical words, a sudden thought had entered her mind - so incredible and so unbelievable that she hardly knew how her heart continued beating.

What if the amulet had not been stolen? What if Jack had lost it himself...here in Brabant?

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	22. June 17th, Pt II

A/N: With this little bit, things are becoming clearer, I hope. Hope you are still enjoying. Many, many thanks go - as always - to the OHT!

Enjoy.

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><p><strong>June 17th, later<strong>

They were on the road to what was anyone's guess. Waterloo - the name of the village sounded foreign, but tranquil at the same time. Boyd and his men had seen it on their investigative outings. A place that was usually quiet and calm, now upset and excited by having the field headquarters of the Allied Armies in their village inn. It was said that the Duke himself would use the inn as his accommodation.

His soldiers looked forward to less comfortable lodgings. Many of them were on the road, marching towards the village. Many of them had fought the day before, others marched then as well. The heavy rain from earlier had receded to a steady drizzle, thus doing nothing for the comfort or positive outlook of the men.

The squadrons of the 11th Light Dragoons were moving towards their own strategic spot for the upcoming battle. Instructions from high in command had placed them on the East flank of the future battle order. They would face the villages of _Smohain_, _La Haye_ and _Papelotte_, bringing up the rear for the Saxe-Weimar infantry troops.

The commanders saw this particular fact with worry. The regiment would have to enforce the infantry standing their ground and protect the flank more than any actual attack. It could be a blessing in disguise, but it could just as well be the set up for heavy losses.

The regiment went in squadrons, always a few at a time. Through the rain the roads were heavy and muddy, exhausting horses and men.

Captain Boyd's squadron was amongst the last, not surprisingly.

The men, though able to disguise it, were subdued, their thoughts circling around the same topic time and again.

There wasn't much else to be thought, much else to be done, except keep the horses close, and provisions and supplies at hand. It was a tired trek towards the unknown.

Amidst his men, Boyd's thoughts were similar to those of his men, though with a few variations. The interview with their prisoners had not brought as much information as they had hoped for. It assured them of the fact that the dead woman was indeed Linda Cummings, a partner in the marauding troupe and the wench of...several men. At least, Jean's right-hand men seemed to have shared her, but it was not certain that their master had as well.

They could now safely say that Jean was English, had been educated in Cambridge, and was well off originally. A decorated soldier in his earlier life...married, apparently, with a family still in England. This was something that bothered Boyd a great deal - why would a man who had his life so well established and settled throw it all away to become a common thief?

What drove a man from setting out his life in defence of his country and his King, only to turn his back on them and become a murderous traitor?

Boyd could not fathom this, wondered if there were actually people who could understand the workings of a human mind. Grace might have understood, he believed. She seemed to be able to define and understand people's minds - his, certainly. Generally, Boyd found, he just would have enjoyed speaking to her, though he doubted that it would have been an easy conversation.

Suddenly, he became aware of a horse slowly moving next to his, its rider quiet.

It was Chris. Newly promoted Sergeant Chris - still without a last name.

Strangely enough, Col. Christie at least had an idea who their young Sergeant was. Col. Money most definitely did. The young man had been taken into the squadron officially, decked out with a uniform and instructions without much ado. The men saw it with surprise, but in the end went on with their tasks. None of them was ever asked their opinion.

"The uniform suits you," Boyd ventured quietly, giving his young companion a sympathetic glance.

Chris shrugged. "It feels somewhat uneasy to wear a British uniform again."

"The Swedish more comfortable?"

"No." The young man chuckled. "It has been months, though, since I have worn any. Paris seems a lifetime ago."

"You'll know your way through the city then, when we get there," Boyd concluded.

Once again, Chris shrugged. "Nothing is certain. The battle has not been fought to the end and we have not won yet. Yesterday has shown that we have to wait for Bonaparte to make a mistake."

"You have little trust in your high command."

The younger man gave him a long look. "I was poised to enter High Wycombe, ready to become a good staff officer. Being on staff instead of on the line was not appealing when need called to defeat Napoleon, but I pride myself in knowing a few things about strategy."

"We did not look sharp yesterday," Boyd admitted, his words even quieter than before.

"No, we did not."

"Yet... You are still here and therefore it seems to me that you have an agenda," Boyd casually, but carefully, said. "More than wanting to end the threat of Napoleon Bonaparte for good. One that is very focussed on Jean."

Chris shrugged, a smile flitting around the corners of his mouth. "It is why I offered my services to you, Captain."

"I am aware of it. I wonder, though, what your agenda entails."

"It is the same as yours. Stopping Jean le Pilleur."

"Indeed. Does your plan include murder, though?"

The younger man was silent for a while, during which he absently toyed with his sabre and the hem of his new uniform jacket. After a while, he sighed. "If it were only for me, I would not be concerned with it, as long as Jean is no longer a threat. For myself I fear no danger, no sin. Not even murder. But my business with Jean is not just for my own soul and for them, I will..."

Boyd smiled at the words. He knew that neither Wharton nor Jordan trusted their new Sergeant, but he, on the other hand, felt a kinship, an understanding with the young man. They were of a similar mind and disposition towards the world. Thus it went without mention that the other soul was a woman for whom Chris had taken this task upon him.

"Is she...?" he started.

The question remained unfinished, but Chris understood. His gaze went pointedly to the place where Boyd could feel the amulet with Grace's portrait against his skin, then returned to his eyes. In the ensuing stare, Boyd could not help but feel that Chris knew a lot more about the miniature and about Grace than he had disclosed so far. "We all have things and people that drive us to do the things we do. So do I, so do you."

His stare was penetrating in a way that Boyd opened his mouth to explain himself and her, something he had not deemed necessary for anything or to anybody since his youth. Well, to anybody except Grace. The end of their encounter the night before came back to his mind, remorse coating his memory. It had been his constant companion since she had run away.

It was in his nature to be suspicious, one of the reasons why he was so successful in his business. It was also in his past to be weary of things that looked too good to be true. Yet, if he did not die today, the odds were good that he would do so tomorrow. There would be another battle, neither he nor Grace had been in any doubt about it.

Should his thoughtless and insensible behaviour be the last thing she remembered of him? Did he want her memories of him to be one of perceived deliberate cruelness?

He was a suspicious man, weary of social entanglements, but he was not cruel and she the last person he wanted to think so.

Next to him, Chris pushed his horse to trot a little faster. With a last look over his shoulder, he nodded. "As I said, Captain. We all are driven by something to do something."

* * *

><p>The day dragged on in preparations, the camp at <em>Enghien<em> slowly emptying. The rain continued, keeping the day grey and dark.

The two women sheltering between shrubs under a large oak tree felt the damp chill creep up on their bodies. Their coats were wet, their shoes were wet, dresses and stockings as well. Neither admitted it, but what they had originally considered to be a good idea to ward off the cold now actually led to them shivering.

"We should go," the younger of the two said. "There is nothing we are going to find out here today."

"They go East," the other replied absent-mindedly.

"This hopefully means that we will not be caught in the middle when the battle begins."

"There are more coming from the West and the French won't be far away."

They both shivered again and fell silent. In the camp, another squadron began its march into the falling dusk, their steps heavy, the accompanying horses tired.

"Napoleon did not battle today."

"No, milady. But I am certain he will do so tomorrow."

The older woman smiled minutely, before she turned away and began to make her way out of their hiding place. "Tomorrow might be too late."

* * *

><p>If one very carefully appraised the movements of the Allied soldiers, one could not help but wonder how those halfwits around the Duke of Wellington could even imagine to win. Marching orders were sloppy, the foreigners in the regiments without enthusiasm.<p>

Between the abilities of the French and the lack thereof amongst the Allies, there was room to manoeuvre.

The man leaning against the tree let the telescope in his hands sink.

The emptying camp would be an easy target to plunder, but there was little monetary gain to be found. Not worth wasting effort and men on. Besides, plundering an empty encampment was a petty act and he no longer wasted his time on petty things.

Theft was petty.

Blood was not.

The British moved South East for battle, but so did the French. In only a few hours time, quite possibly the largest butchering in mankind would take place.

And amidst the French and the Allied troops trying to kill each other, there would be plenty of room for men like him to manoeuvre.

It would be the perfect time to settle a bill or two.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	23. June 17th, Pt III

A/N: Glad to hear that you are still enjoying - and I guess, for those of you who like the mystery as such...and those of you who are in for the B/G-goodness, I think that's your chapter! Enjoy! And many, many thanks and hugs go to the OHT, but especially ShadowSamurai83 for the beta and the constant encouragement.

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><p><strong>June 17th, even later<strong>

The rain did not relent, even after nightfall. Everybody who could was hiding inside solid structures with a solid roof and hopefully sitting near a burning fire.

Boyd was grateful that the small hut at least had this much. There were no leaks in the roof, due to the hut's meaning as a hay storage. The hay also kept them warm, while they burrowed under their coats. It was not the most romantic meeting they could have had, but they both knew that come morning and the rain letting up, the big battle would be fought.

This was quite possibly the final night they would ever have together. The final night either of them lived. Grace was quiet now, lying in his arms, one hand idly playing with the miniature still dangling from his neck.

They had started as they did most of the time with wild kisses and clothes quickly undone. He had not apologized, she had not asked for it. Yet at some point, as if having the same thought at the same time, they had stopped and just looked at each other. Seconds later, he had drawn Grace into his arms, both of them all but collapsing into the hay and holding on for dear life.

"Tomorrow...," Grace started.

He stopped her words by pressing a finger to her mouth, but she shook her head. "Last night...," she started again.

This time, Boyd shook his head. "I am not very apt at social niceties," he said, then smiled ruefully. "My Colonel keeps telling me that this is why I have not advanced further than I have."

"I wager that you are not interested in advancement, if it forces you into the political machinations of a regiment," Grace interrupted, her smile slightly amused despite herself. "If you could do it without having to cater to certain important people's whims, simply on terms of military achievement, you'd gladly push for it."

He was silent, unable to deny it. Grace had described his career in a few words, without knowing any of the details. Holding her tighter against him, he continued. "I am generally not a very socially apt person, something my wife..." In his arms, Grace stiffened at the mention of a wife, but Boyd kept holding her, his free hand caressing her shoulder. "...My late wife and her father did not approve of. I was never polite or diplomatic or nice enough."

"To anybody," she added.

"Not even to my son, his mother claimed."

At this, the tone of his voice, her hand stopped playing with the miniature and moved over to cover his heart as if to soothe it. "Where did he die?" she asked quietly, the empathy in her voice like a blanket that wrapped around and warmed him.

"_Salamanca_. Before we could...resolve...really resolve."

Grace did not reply verbally, but buried herself deeper in his arms, her hand still over his heart.

"Did he die a soldier's death?"

"A pointless one."

They were silent once again and Boyd was grateful for it. Thinking about his son hurt, even after three years.

"What was his name?"

He smiled, glad that she showed such an interest. Though he did not, could not, go into too much detail, it felt good to say even this little. If he died on the morrow, it was good to know that somebody would know and remember his son's name.

"Luke."

"Does Luke have a grave?" The way Grace asked the question caught Boyd's interest. He could feel that it was not just a question of emphatic interest. There was something she wanted to say, but what it was, depended on his answer.

"Yes," he supplied. "I could bury him with honours after the battle."

"That's good." Grace's voice was suddenly thick with tears, not something he had expected. "That's very good," she repeated.

His hand went to her chin, forcing her to look at him. Even in the darkness, he could see the tears brimming in her eyes. "What is it?" he asked gently, instantly cupping her face to soothe her.

"Your son has a grave. Mine does not. Neither does his father."

In a sudden and quick move Grace sat up, facing away from him and pulling her knees up to her chest. She looked as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible, looking fragile and lost in the dark. Boyd's protective instincts soared, his body following hers, wrapping himself around her.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"The common thing, I suppose," Grace said after a while. "My husband and son did not get along well and it became worse when my son became old enough not only to see and hear, but to understand as well."

"The common thing. It does sound familiar," Boyd said as she paused for a moment, but she didn't reply. "What happened?"

"My husband, he always preferred our daughters. Our son...well, I believe our son turned out to be too much like me."

He wanted to ask the question, the one that burned through him every time he thought about her past, yet he refrained from it.

With a small breathy laugh, Grace shrugged. "When my father agreed to the match, he believed to do me a favour. He believed that being married to a wealthy gentleman who is very engaged in his profession and business, I would retain the freedom to follow my interests."

"He was wrong?"

Once again, she shook her head. "No, but it was not the kind of freedom I had known from my childhood. Not the freedom that is based on understanding and interest. Affection. I believe I was also spoiled by the happy connection my parents had shared. I had imagined every marriage would be like that. I believed that once children were born, affection would come. I believed that a woman of knowledge and manners would find friends everywhere... I believed so many things."

"You are originally from the North, are you?"

"Yes, something my husband seemed to have overlooked when he asked my very Northern father for my hand," Grace replied sardonically. "I assume his main interest was in certain aspects of my father's business and marrying the only daughter secured them."

Eager to stir the conversation into another direction, for he could see how painful it was for Grace to speak of these things, Boyd grappled for words, feeling his ineptitude in social dealings all the more keenly. Society was cruel, he knew this as good as any other. The highest was no better than those below it, aspiring to advance. There was no openness, no tolerance. Society and one's position in it was everything.

"What happened to your son?"

"It started when he was just a boy, during the revolution. Friends had brought papers and journals from France, speeches made in the Constituent Assembly. The Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizens. Women's rights. All this. I was curious..."

"You are a revolutionary, then?" Boyd asked with an amused grin.

"I believe that people should have rights. More rights than they have."

"Some may consider this treason."

With a shrug, she ignored his comment. "My husband tried to banish such papers from our house. When he realized that he could not stop me from reading them, he started to ridicule me. Our son being more my child than his father's, he did not agree with him. When Napoleon declared his code of law... My son has learned much of his French from it."

"I take it your husband considers Bonaparte the devil himself?"

Grace chuckled. "Like any good officer in his Majesty's army should. He died over two years ago in America. At least, we believe that he did. When I saw that miniature I...it was a shock."

Pulling her once again into his arms, Boyd kissed her head. "What about your son?"

"He ardently admired Bonaparte, until there was another war and another. He came to believe that a tyranny for the good of the people is still a tyranny and must be ended. I believe he wanted to fight his father as much as Napoleon, but my husband had already shipped out to America, so my son went and fought Napoleon. After Moscow, everything seemed possible."

"He has not returned," Boyd concluded.

"No. I have had no word from him either, until a few weeks ago, I received a note claiming that he had been seen near Brussels."

"That is why you have come here to this God forsaken place?" Boyd shook his head, at once incredulous, admiring and worried. "This is not a place for a woman..."

Grace made a sound that could have been called a growl. "It is not a place for anybody!"

He relented instantly. She was right and he did not want their last night, that would be cut short in any case, to be spent fighting. "Did you find intelligence about your son?"

From the expression on her face, he could see that she had not, sadness edging itself into her features. She looked tired, even resigned, but - surprisingly - not defeated. At once, Boyd knew that Grace was not a woman who gave up. Ever.

"No. Maybe he died in Russia already, or at Leipzig, or even in one of those small battles before Paris. I do not know." For a moment, something sparked in Boyd's mind, but as Grace continued the hazy slip of a thought disappeared. "The closest I have come to any information is,..." She looked pointedly at his chest. "...This medallion."

"You said it was your husband's," Boyd said quietly as he moved to loosen the chain around his neck.

"It was. I sat for it ten years ago. It was a birthday present."

"Do you think your son took it with him?"

"I believed that Jack, my husband, had taken it with him to America. Despite the strain on our marriage, he did not part with it." Grace shrugged, her voice once again choked with emotion, and even without looking at her, Boyd knew that tears were in her eyes. "At least, this has been my belief until now. But of course, I might have been deceived on this matter."

He reacted instantly, pulling her against him and kissing her hair. With gentle pressure, he put the miniature into her hand. Wordlessly, they held each other for long minutes.

When she finally looked up at him, there were still tears present in her eyes, but underneath them she smiled. "Thank you," she whispered.

He leaned down to kiss her, a small, tender peck at first, but it quickly grew into a sensual connection, lips and tongue searching and discovering.

Hands began to wander and slowly, but surely, push and pull on clothes to uncover naked skin. Eager to take in as much of her as possible, his lips moved down her throat to her shoulders, then to her breasts. Her pale skin seemed luminescent in the dark, glowing before his feverish gaze. Her eyes were half-closed, her sighs and the clutch of her fingers on his skin his guiding force.

He wanted to take his time with her, with them - to make the last time a memory to die with.

She seemed of the same mind, moving from erotic enjoyment to sensual aggression in a heartbeat. Her lips and teeth and tongue seemed to be everywhere, her hands finding every spot in his body that made him shiver.

In a tangled mass of limbs, relentlessly connected by kisses and touches, and later by the most intimate and primal link possible, they whiled away the minutes and hours of most of the night.

When finally he made her shatter under his body, her teeth left a deep mark in his shoulder as it absorbed her high-pitched scream. When he exploded, his roar of her name resounded in the meadow and was swallowed by the rain.

They lay entwined in the aftermath, pliant and exhausted, their bodies still shivering - both from the cold night air and the sensations still rushing beneath their skin. As thoughts began to slowly reassert itself, Boyd silently vowed to himself that this could not be the last time they had seen and been with each other.

This _could_ not be the last time.

Of course, a large part of it was out of his hands, but he would make every attempt to come back to her.

He did not know, for she did not say it, but Grace made the same vow at the same time.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	24. June 18th, Pt I

A/N: As the Klingons say "Today is a good day to die", we've now and finally come to the actual day of battle. But not only because of that, this day is full of adventure for our heroes. And the one big question remains: Am I going to kill either of them off?

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 18th, 1815<strong>

The day that would decide the fate of the continent - the longest day as it was - dawned as the previous had done.

Grey and wet.

While making the men who spent their day and previous night out of doors - thousands of them - miserable, it also gave them a reprieve. Many would not have agreed to the assessment, but there was a certain truth to it.

Strategists on both sides knew their reliance on dry ground. Artillery and cavalry required tough, dry soil to manoeuvre effectively. If Bonaparte wanted to win this battle, then he'd have to rely on the strong abilities of those two weapons. Yet this also put him in a difficult position. The later he engaged in battle, the stronger the numbers of his opponents would become.

It was a difficult choice the Emperor faced.

And it was already ten in the morning, with no sign of the rain letting up.

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><p>The two men sat on stubs of timber under a low canopy of military cloth that held off the rain quite effectively. Smoking their pipes, they quietly conversed, eyes always trained on their surroundings. They could feel secure, protected by men, hidden and in the open, but they had not survived and done what they had done for so long by abandoning caution.<p>

Success was dearly bought, they both knew it. Lapse of control, lapse of observation, and you were either dead or...at least out of business. They were both daring men, brutal to the point of bestiality, but they were neither stupid nor uncontrolled.

"I am certain it was her."

The other man raised an eyebrow, then drew a deep breath. "It is of no importance," he finally said coldly. "We have plans, Harry. Plans we will carry out today."

"I am aware of it,...Jean..." The man by the name of Harry paused for effect before he used his companion's name. It was funny almost, such a small thing, so effective. Nobody seemed to make the connection, proving intelligence services on both sides to be either incapable, ignorant or gullible.

Sometimes, things were so simple.

"That English officer, though, their raids have disturbed a few of our places. Spoiled some of the pickings." He paused and when he continued, there was a certain tension in his voice. "They've found Linda...and they've picked up Doyle and Stewart."

"Forget about them!" Jean harshly replied. "They are of no consequence to us."

"If they give us away..."

"Since when are you a coward, Harry?" Jean's temper rose. "As soon as the rain lets up, Boney will strike. Then it will not matter whether Doyle and Stewart have sung or kept their mouths shut. There will be a great butchering on these fields and all that is important then is for us to help along with it." He smiled, but it was not a positive expression. Instead it was a grimace of malevolence.

Harry nodded. "I know...Jean."

"I am Jean le Pilleur," his companion intoned intensely. "The man with the other name does not exist anymore. He died in America."

Once again, Harry nodded.

"Where did that squadron march to?" Moving back onto business, Jean sat down on the stub again and drew deeply from his pipe. "The one with our disturbance."

"It's a Captain Boyd and his squadron..."

"Never mind the name, I am not interested. Where did they go to?"

"Between _La Haye_ and _Papelotte_."

The menacing smirk returned to Jean's face. "Then we will focus our plans between _La Haye_ and _Papelotte_. I do not like nosey people and something as low as a mere captain? Most intensely not!"

Harry nodded in acquiescence. "Shall I tell the men then that there is a reward for Captain Boyd's head?"

Jean was quiet for a moment. "I would prefer him alive. It will look like death in battle...and there is little entertainment to be had from it. But yes...who can bring me evidence of this Captain Boyd's death shall be rewarded...as shall the man who returns my miniature to me."

"What about the women... Lady Grace and her maid?"

There was silence for a while as Jean le Pilleur contemplated the question. Though he could not be certain, Harry believed to detect some hesitation in his partner.

In the end though, the decision was unsurprising. "Nobody will stand in our way. If the women disturb our plans...they die!"

* * *

><p>The three women could not be certain where they were safe, expecting that there was not really such place. Yet the sheer scale of troops gathered, mile on mile, overcame even their wildest imagination. Worried looks were exchanged as they slipped between moving squadrons, weaved through the small groves and bushes. Always trying to avoid the thick of things, they made their way East.<p>

In the eyes of Ms Lockhart, it was not the safest direction they were taking. Moving North towards Brussels would have been safer, but the young woman had learned that her mistress was not to be swayed from a decision she had once made.

Lady Grace seemed to still firmly believe that even amidst the chaos of a battle she would be able to find traces of her son. The lady had not mentioned any details about her encounters with the cavalry Captain, yet it seemed that the somewhat disgraceful arrangement had indeed brought intelligence. The exact details she had not shared, but they seemed to lay heavily on her mind.

Now they were following the path the Dragoon regiment had taken the day before, for all they knew marching to their doom as well.

The small watch Ms. Lockhart was hiding in her purse showed the time to be not noon yet, when the rain let up. Mere minutes later the sound of gunshots and even a few canons resounded in the air.

The women stopped to look at the fortification in the distance. Over its turrets smoke was billowing and fire burning.

"We need to move, Madame," young Stella urged after a few moments of shocked silence.

Grace nodded savagely.

* * *

><p>Waiting was the worst part in a battle. All morning they had sat upon their horses and waited. Waited for the signal, waited for the attack, for anything. As long as it was raining, any military activity from the French was unlikely, and Allied strategy ordered waiting as such.<p>

However, it had been over two hours of dry weather now and they were still waiting. The French did nothing, except shelling the Allied lines with heavy artillery fire further West. For the 11th Light Dragoons, the day dragged on.

Cornet Jordan could feel himself become fidgety, eyed his companions from the corners of his eyes. Wharton smiled sardonically and young Chris' face betrayed no emotion. On his other side, Boyd was oddly calm, occupied with his thoughts.

Jordan took the moment to contemplate what he could only assume. The captain had not shared information about the mysterious woman. It was obvious that Boyd trusted her, enough not to hold her prisoner, this fact alone more telling than any word. Their repeated encounters, every night, spoke of something that went beyond carnal enjoyment. Boyd was a man with a purpose again, a purpose beyond military.

Under different circumstances he would have welcomed the development, yet the circumstances were what they were. By nightfall none of this would matter in any case.

Swallowing his bored sigh, Jordan settled more comfortably into the saddle and did what all of his companions did. Wait.

* * *

><p>Two o' clock gone, the French General d'Erlon dispatched his cavalry troops in a direct attack on the centre of the Allied forces. However, it became stuck along the length of the lines. At the same time, Marshall Ney ordered his infantry to follow the cavalry assault.<p>

Both were repelled by the British forces standing their ground.

A second wave of assault was started, then a third, taking the hours of the afternoon. Neither proved to be successful.

It seemed an endless circle of attack and repellence, of shots and short sabre fights, attack and withdrawal.

Men fell on both sides, lying around on the fields as obstacles for the next waves. Wounded were left to die as no-one could muster the time or thought to retrieve them and take them back. Who fell out of his squadron was lost.

The Dragoons under Colonels Money and Christie stood their ground as time wore on, eyes fastened in the direction of their French enemies. During the early hours of the afternoon, they saw relatively little action and after three o'clock began to advance onto _Smohain_, in order to keep it clear out of French reach, for the time the Prussian support would arrive.

The advance seemed easy enough, yet, for some strange reason, the rifle bullets flying around did not come from a French direction. The Colonels, who heard reports of it within minutes were disturbed by it, had word given to their squadron commanders within minutes again.

The Captains, Lieutenants, even Sergeants perked up at that, beginning to make sure each and every flank of their groups was watched and protected.

"They are watchful."

* * *

><p>"Bastards! They'll catch us, before we catch them!"<p>

"Aim for the head then!"

"What about the horses?"

"Forget the horses, kill the men!"

"Which of them is that Captain we get money for?"

"Shut up and shoot!"

* * *

><p>Five in the afternoon and chaos reigned. Dust and soot heavily covered the land and all the people walking - or in case of the three women - running it.<p>

"I do not think it was a very wise idea, Madame," Ms Lockhart ground out amidst deep gulps of air. She fell heavily against the trunk of a tree, instinctively ducking as she felt, more than heard, bullets fizzing by. They could not make out any particular point from where the shots came, but in this chaos, what did it matter?

Once again, Ms Lockhart could not help but admire her mistress' tenacity and endurance. The older woman, though having run just like them, looked hardly worse for wear. There was something to be said about having something that drove you to do, but it was no longer obvious what exactly the driving force was behind her ladyship's determination.

Things had become so muddled as of late. Who knew still where was what and who was who?

They could and had to count themselves lucky that they were still alive and healthy.

"Madame, we should leave." Stella, the farmer's daughter who had been accompanying them all day, sounded just as urgent. "It is not safe here."

Lady Grace gave her a small smile once they all had the chance to look up again. Her face was streaked with mud from the heavy ground, her dress a grey-brown of dirt. Her hair was covered in the same muck. Nobody would consider her a Lady of the Ton now. "Nowhere is safe. Not before the Prussians have come."

* * *

><p>It was pushing seven in the evening, but none of the men could spare the time to think about it. Neither could any of them recount the hours they had spent in the saddle, fighting. The entire afternoon had consisted of attack and retreat, attack and retreat. Divided between <em>Papelotte<em> and _La Haye_, the dragoons of the 11th Light had fought Frenchmen, killed many, and seen their comrades felled by them as well. So far the regiment had suffered little loss in terms of men - not even wounded so far - but a few horses had found their end by the bullets and canons.

Yet it was an exhausting day, fraud with frustrations. The French were good fighters and possibly quite desperate to win, but the endless circle of attack and counter-attack, without any sign of victory for either side grated on the men.

Exhaustion and frustration led to sloppiness, their commanders knew. Sloppiness was the first step towards defeat.

"Attention!" The voice resounded amongst the tired men, making them sit up straighter. They knew the voice of one of their captains well, mostly from having been shouted down during drills. Heads turned to follow the voice.

Dirty and sooty, blood on his uniform and on his horse, Captain Boyd gestured for the men to follow him, Captains Cavendish and Drake, as well as the two Colonels for another attack.

They could only hope it would be the final, the ultimate one.

* * *

><p>Dusk fell, though one could hardly see it for himself, by the time the battle was finally over.<p>

And won.

While the victorious commanders Wellington and Blücher met near Napoleon's previous headquarters, the Emperor's troops were in retreat, though many were fleeing more like it. They were right to do so, for Allied troops, not yet informed of the end of the day, were in pursuit.

They did not know that it was over. They did not know the numbers of losses - high and tragic as they were.

They were weary to the bone, many of them. Others felt the rush of blood still in their ears.

It would take hours, possibly days, before routine returned to their lives.

Yet the Battle of Waterloo had been won. Only there was nobody to celebrate it.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	25. June 18th, Pt II

A/N: So, would I really kill one of my main characters? Would I? You never know. Still, hope you will enjoy this chapter.

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><p><strong>June 18th, later<strong>

They had followed the Frenchmen in a heated charge, once they had turned their tails and fled. Exhilaration was in all the men, raised by the blood pumping in their veins from hours of fighting, of living on the edge of death. At the same time, he could see glee on their faces, elation at having won. Though no official word had come, his men knew that the victory was theirs.

It was going on night time, by the position of the moon pushing for ten o'clock. Their High Commander was meeting his Prussian counterpart at that moment, but the men did not know and did not care. All they wished for were to dismount their horses, have a healthy swig of brandy, some food and then sleep. Sleep. Hours and hours of sleep.

They deserved it. Their fight had been valiant and successful, the regiment losing hardly a man. Col. Christie was proud of his lads.

All was quiet, the deep breath of relief after all the horror. The land was beginning to relax.

They were on the road back to their original position of the morning, just near the farm of _Papelotte_, could see the quiet place.

A shot rang out from the building.

Then another from the side of the grove on the other side..

"Defensive position!" The voice of Captain Cavendish resounded in the air, followed - instinctively - by the men. Within seconds they were down on the ground, pistols ready to fire. Still, it was precious moments that were lost and the moans of several men being hit were heard.

The skirmish, unwanted, quickly became more heated than any would like, those last straggling Frenchmen apparently eager to take as many British down as possible before they died themselves, by ambushing them from two sides.

It was a trap, posed specifically for their regiment. Mortal danger for those squadrons following.

"Down!" The shout came, from God knows whom, to alarm those who were arriving to the scene later.

Col. Christie, on the ground himself, registered only with half an ear which squadron was warned. There was no time for further thought as the bullets were whizzing by his head.

Shooting and ducking, it was difficult to receive a clear picture of what was happening. The falling darkness provided perfect cover for their opponents.

"Boyd! Down!" Once again, the warning rang out and strangely, almost immediately, the rifles and pistols of their attackers were largely turned away from the much larger and thus easier to hit group in the middle of the meadow and turned towards the newcomers.

The heat of the ambush increased considerably, gun shots increasing in number and frequency. It was strange, but it almost looked as if their ambushers were specifically targeting the squadron they supposed was Captain Boyd's.

From behind the Colonel could hear shouts and the stampede of hooves as the horses were led and turned and by one, then two sounds of hooves suddenly being lighter, Christie knew that the beasts had lost their riders.

Whether it was to injury or death, nobody would know as long as the attack lasted.

"Move forward," came a hissed command, barely audible over the din of the skirmish. It was Captain Drake's voice who ordered the men forward, to use the focus on Boyd's squadron to creep closer to their attackers and possibly overwhelm them.

Christie took a moment to look around, gauge which men were with them.

"Captain down!"

The shout from the back make the Colonel's heart pause for a moment, a quicker prayer leaving his lips. Boyd had been a good man. A very good man.

It was a damn shame.

* * *

><p>They crept quietly through the shrubbery, the darkness and the greenery providing perfect cover. Strange how, despite the fire and the bullets and the masses of men, material and beast, the bushes and trees and the grass still existed. The ground was still soggy, despite the hours it had not rained.<p>

They would leave footprints all over the place, but that was of little consequence. Only the result counted - a man's head. It would never again be so easy, the tip-off worth every penny it had been bought for.

That boy, Emile, was absolutely worth his money.

* * *

><p>On the meadow, the men of the regiment inched their way forward doggedly. After the shout about the felled the captain, the pistols had been turned back on them, but despite the surprise they were making good headway.<p>

Col. Christie once again allowed himself a sideways glance, and found, to his surprise, young Sergeant Chris robbing next to him.

The two men looked at each other, understanding communicated between them. Why Boyd had sent the newest addition to his squadron away, Christie did not know, probably one of those Boyd-things.

The sad thing was that he could not ask about the why any more.

* * *

><p>"There." He recognised the word more for the mouth movement than a sound, proud for a short moment that their communication worked so well. But even without the word, he would have known, for it wasn't difficult to see the five men only a few feet away from them, all aiming and shooting.<p>

Snipers!

And not a bloody Frenchman in sight!

The misfit of clothes on their back showed them to be anything but soldiers and the realization came quick.

Marauders!

It was dark amidst the shrubbery, shadowy, as the moon provided little light from the clouded sky. Yet, by chance or pure genius, two of the men amongst the five sitting in front of them were easily recognisable.

One was the average man, the one that he had taken one look at and classified as average in everything.

Next to him the man was much shorter, stockier and the making of his coat identified him as exactly who he was.

All of them knew it.

The gesture came quick, pistols cleared as the hid behind trees. Three men with two pistols each against five.

Every shot needed to be a hit.

Captain Peter Boyd took a deep breath before he gave the order to make the biggest catch of all. Then, he gave a curt nod and shot.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	26. June 18th, Pt III

A/N: Some of you lovely reviewers expressed their pleasure that I'm going to let Boyd live. Are you sure, I will? My beta, the incomparable ShadowSamurai83 says that I'm evil in this chapter. I guess, I am.

Enjoy.

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><p><strong>June 18th, even later<strong>

"I am impressed!" the man announced with a deep note of haughty disdain in his voice. "I would not had given it to you two days ago that you would find me. And so quickly."

"I am surprisingly good at what I do, Monsieur, which is why I am here and you...are bound." Inwardly seething, Boyd appeared for all the world to see as self-assured and very smug. Unless the man in front of him already had a gun trained at his head, Boyd's position was infinitely better than that of Jean le Pilleur, for they could both be very sure that this was who the man was.

The marauder was captured, and alone, for Boyd and his men had shot precisely, killing the four companions.

"And you think that bothers me, Captain? You know nothing."

Boyd still smiled. "I am certain I know enough. I am also certain that I will find out the few things I am still missing. But even without them, I know for a fact that the gallows will be your final station...Jean."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

Jean le Pilleur took a close look at the soldier in front of him. No doubt he was a strong man, and no doubt that for the moment, he had the upper hand, but Jean knew a few things the good captain could not imagine yet. A few things that might break him. All these so honourable men did not understand that their precious honour was their weakest spot. Captain Boyd had acquired himself a very intense weakness lately and Jean was the man to use it against him.

So easily. So very easily.

It was laughable, and Jean allowed himself the amused chuckle. "The gallows do not worry me. The man I was is long dead."

"Jean le Pilleur, in the name of His Majesty, King George, I hereby arrest you on several accounts of murder, several accounts of theft and pilfering, as well as high treason against the crown of England!" Boyd announced, nodding for Jordan and Wharton to tighten their grip on the man.

Jean laughed. "My dear Captain Boyd, you do not know anything. Jean le Pilleur is merely...shall we say...a vision. An image...a spot of imagination...my imagination. You can hardly arrest a person who is...for all it is worth...fictional."

Boyd merely rolled his eyes. The other man's amusement was annoying, but hardly of consequence. They had captured him while trying to shoot British soldiers from the back. That alone would be enough before a war tribunal. If the man wanted to split hairs, he could just as well do that while he was in chains.

"Lt. Wharton, you and Cornet Jordan make sure that our...guest...does not have the chance to leave our very pleasant company, while we transport him to an even more pleasant place in an arrest tent. I am sure Monsieur will very much enjoy our company and lose a bit of his...shall we say...convictions."

"Winning today was pure dumb luck, Boyd, you know that!"

"No thanks to your help, Monsieur. But I guess that we do prefer to win without the help of traitors than with it."

"High and mighty Captain Boyd," Jean chuckled. "You really do believe that your path is clear in every way and on every battlefield." The marauder made a move to come closer, but Wharton and Jordan held him back quite forcefully. Jean's smile widened in amusement before his eyes narrowed, his gaze suddenly harsh and threatening. "But you will not catch the prize. You will never get the prize. She's..."

Boyd's posture had tensed even before his prisoner's words had begun to allude to Grace. There was something in the other man's expression, something of a warning. A threat. The miniature lying against his chest came to mind, the unsolved question as to how a jewel, belonging to Grace's late husband, had come amongst the contraband.

The two men seized each other up. Boyd might have been taller, stronger and fitter, but he did not doubt Jean's ability to fight - dirty, if need be.

They were silent for a while, before Boyd gave a short frown and a sharp, "Move him! The Colonels will want to interrogate him themselves."

"This is not over, Boyd!" Jean announced, his voice sure and jeering.

* * *

><p>Slowly making their way towards the field encampment of the previous night, Boyd tried not to dwell too deeply on their captive's words. Of course, the man had little to lose now. A war tribunal would not waste time with an elongated trial. Treason in war time, that meant the gallows or a firing squad within hours.<p>

Jean seemed to know this, welcome it even. A cultured man of some education it seemed, yet he would end like a street rat.

As they were riding on, the marauder kept up with his occasional jeers, betraying no fear and no remorse.

The three men guarding him had to keep tight control on themselves not to act rashly and quite possibly losing their captive. Chances were big that other marauders still roamed the area, ready to act as snipers.

Ahead, on the other side of a field, they could see a group of people and automatically slowed their horses.

"They are ours," Wharton announced after a moment. "The Colonel is with them."

Shouting the code of the day, the men closed the distance to their comrades, being welcomed with shouts of surprise and curses.

Colonel Christie, in particular, shook his head in exasperated pride, a few swear words escaping. "You simply cannot do things the easy, foreseeable way, can you, Boyd?"

The captain shrugged, half-amused, half-annoyed. Instead of an answer, he opted for a crisp report. "Sir, reporting that we have managed to apprehend our target, Jean le Pilleur! On our way to the encampment for further questioning, before he will be transported to Brussels!"

Christie nodded, impressed, giving the three soldiers a praising look. It was dark, the moon not yet out, so it was hard to distinguish any faces, but the great threat they had worried about... If Christie was honest, he was curious about the man.

"Bring him down!" he ordered and waited for the men to do so. Then he stepped closer and gave their prisoner a cursory glance.

"My God!" he gasped, shock evident in his voice and his stance. "You cannot be serious!"

"Of course, we are, sir!" Boyd replied indignantly. "This is Jean le Pilleur. He has admitted to it!"

The Colonel was silent, still staring at the prisoner with wide eyes.

The other man smirked. "It has been a while, has it not, Ralph?"

Colonel Christie's eyes narrowed. "Your career has taken a turn for the worse then," he declared after a while.

"We might have to widely disagree on this, Ralph."

"From a highly decorated and respected Colonel in His Majesty's army to the gallows for high treason?" Christie queried. "I believe that is quite a fall from grace, milord. Even for you."

"Sir?" Jordan interrupted, neither willing nor capable to wait for an actual explanation.

Christie gave him and his comrades, as well as the other soldiers of the regiment who were slowly but surely gathering, a quick look. Then he shook his head. "Let's get that traitor under full arrest. I want this finished as quickly as possible!"

The Cornet could hardly hold in his disappointment, but obediently moved, pushing their prisoner forward.

After the constant drum of the battle, the evening was quiet, but even if it hadn't been, the sudden click of a pistol being unlocked resounded around them like an actual shot.

The men froze, then turned as one to the source of the sound. Amongst them, yet solitary, stood Chris, the pistol pointed towards their prisoner.

His face was cold, his expression hard as ice. His entire body was a picture of determination. Yet Boyd could see how something was hard at work in the young man.

"Don't, Sergeant!" Christie ordered, though it sounded like a plea. "Don't do anything you will regret!"

The young man did not listen. Instead he took another step closer to his target. "Let's finish this now!"

For the first time since his capture, Jean betrayed an emotion. In fact, several emotions were rushing over each other on his face. There was joy, albeit very brief, then annoyance, even disgust. In the end, the jeer was back.

"You can't do it!" he announced to Chris.

"I have been waiting for months to do it, nothing you say will stop me now."

The older man snorted derisively. "You are a weakling, Christopher! You always were. A Mummy's boy only. Not a man! You cannot kill anyone, much less me."

Chris closed his eyes for a moment, before a smile flitted over his features. All of a sudden things became clear to Boyd. The similarity was obvious in the small gesture of sneering scorn. In that moment he knew what would now unfold, yet he could not help but think that this was only one aspect of the full story. There was something else still, something... The thought was drowned out by the racing of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears. This was not going according to plan. Jean killed by Chris on account of...?

"You always underestimated me," Chris announced quietly, before he donned a sardonic smile. "You see, you are already dead, so it won't make a difference to anybody if I really kill you!"

Cocking the pistol to aim directly at Jean's forehead, Chris concentrated fiercely. "Say a prayer, Father! Pray with your final breath that God may forgive you! Nobody else will!"

* * *

><p>The sound of a gunshot fell, ringing loudly in the meadow.<p>

Jean le Pilleur fell.

* * *

><p>More gunshots came.<p>

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	27. June 18th, Pt IV

A/N: I have to say, I do like cliffhangers. Always did. But I do believe I can give you all some sort of relief as to whether Boyd and Grace survived the actual day of battle. The war is a whole other ballgame. Still, thank you for the wonderful reviews. I'm glad you like the unraveling so far. There's more to come though. Many, many thanks and hugs go to the OHT!

Sorry, this is so short.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 18th, right after the moment before<strong>

Though thoroughly enthralled by the scene unfolding before them, the soldiers ascertained within seconds that this was hardly the execution their Sergeant was performing, but an ambush, and by the sound of it, it was French.

Orders were issued quickly, the origin of the shots discovered and the unit went into ducking positions again and then returned the fire.

It was dark and dangerous, just as it had been minutes before when they had encountered the marauders. Or had that been French troops as well? Who did still know after this day?

The men, weary but experienced, did not spend long thinking on this; they just ducked, shot and advanced and within a few exchanges, the attack was subdued.

"Secure the area," Col. Christie ordered and half a dozen men rushed to scout.

"Well," the Colonel continued, turning back to Captain Boyd and his men, eyeing Chris with disdain. "I do believe this can be called an eventful day. Sergeant!" he ordered, and Chris snapped to attention. "We are not murderers, but soldiers of His Majesty. Honourable men. We do not kill any traitor or thief, just because we feel like it! You are under arrest, Sergeant!"

"Sir!"

Christie shook his head. "We will deal with this, Sergeant. Later. Let's bring in your..." He paused and shook his head, half in disbelief, half in annoyance. "...Our prisoner..."

"Oh, for God's Sake! Damn it all to hell!"

The spot where Jean had fallen down minutes ago, seemingly hit by a bullet, was empty.

* * *

><p>She rubbed a hand over her face wearily, breathing deeply through her fingers. It was of little use, there simply did not seem to be enough air to fill her lungs completely and ease the tightness of her throat.<p>

The stench of bodies, bloodied, scarred, burned; the stench of injury and death lay oppressively in the air. It covered everything, closed up everything. She was glad that she had not eaten anything, despite the complaints of her stomach, for she was certain no food could have stayed with her.

Only a foot away from her lay a few men, lightly injured only on first sight, but then they were cutting off their boots and with it a new wave of bile rose in her throat. All of the soldiers shared the same predicament - rotting flesh on their shins, where the leather of the boots had rubbed off the skin and left open flesh. Infected now, it smelled of pus so strongly that even at this distance she could still clearly smell it. Lice were crawling over the open flesh, creating a ring of blackness around the angry red.

Averting her eyes, Grace tried to catch her bearings.

Those men were far down on the list of patients, others demanded more, and more immediate attention.

There were just so many. So many dead. So many hurt.

How easy was it for him to have been just one amongst the number of thousands left to die on the fields. How would she ever find out whether it was so?

And if he was not dead, merely injured, would she even see him amidst those hundreds they were treating and supporting here?

What had become of him, of Boyd? And what of her son?

Had either of them lived through this day? Would either of them see tomorrow's dawn?

Her heart cramped under the dark thought, tears rising to burn in the back of her throat.

How was she to bear it?

"Milady?" Ms Lockhart asked gently, her hand placed on the older woman's shoulder.

Grace looked up at her, only half seeing what was around her any more.

"Milady, you are needed. Dr. Poole needs assistance."

For a moment, the two women's gaze locked, understanding passing between them. They both shared a small and fleeting grimace.

Holding her hand out, Ms Lockhart helped her lady up to her feet, then carefully, almost tenderly, pulled her away from the tree stump where she had leaned. Grace cast a last glance at the boot-less soldiers who stretched out on the still soggy ground with groans of relief.

For them the day was finally over.

For Grace, she knew, it would not be until she had news.

Of any kind.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	28. June 19th, Pt I

**A/N: **At last it has come, the mystery will be revealed in full. And to all. Which means, I guess, even to the only one still oblivious. Boyd. For all of you, enjoy!

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><p><strong>June 19<strong>**th, 1815  
><strong>

To everybody seeing him this morning. it was obvious that Field Marshall Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, was in a much better spirits than the previous days and weeks. Though polite and engaging in social circles, his staff had felt the hardship of the Duke's low mood in preparation for the battle.

Yet, on the morning of June 19th in the year of the Lord 1815, it could not be denied that Wellington was of an exemplary jovial disposition.

Though he would hardly announce any news, his appearance before his victorious soldiers was anticipated with great excitement.

All over the continent, messengers had pushed their horses all night in order to arrive at their destinations with the good or devastating news of an Allied victory. In Paris, where the bells had tolled victory the morning before, people now heard the details of defeat, and while the Bonapartes' hastily packed for flight again, the common man and woman on the street could hardly spare more than a shrug.

Everywhere else in Europe the news where accepted in a much more jubilant manner. Though the war was not fully over, little doubt was now on its quick and victorious end in Paris, where a final decision and action on the fate of Napoleon would be made.

Even the weather, such source of worry the day before, was jubilant, bright, blue and sunny.

Weather for the victorious.

* * *

><p>In the field encampments that were not stage to official and high ranking ablutions, the situation looked brighter as well, but there was still chaos and no little despair. Around hospital tents, wounded still lay on one side, waiting for treatment or sleeping off their pain. On the other side, on the edge of the encampments, small hills were growing.<p>

It was a small mountain of dead bodies, brought back from the battlefield by their comrades or died of their wounds over night. Field doctors and their reluctant nurses - none of them with actual medical training - moved carefully between the bodies of those alive, then ordering porters to pick up those who no longer were.

For a day of joy, it was a depressing sight and it left few unaffected.

Ms Lockhart all but stumbled over an outstretched leg on the ground as she made her most recent round. She could barely hold her eyes open after an entire night of helping out and caring for the wounded. Barely two hours of sleep had been hers and she felt it. Her ladyship looked even worse, no doubt, because she had rested even less.

They had not seen the face of either that soldier nor of her son, but it was little consolation. It could take years to identify all dead, if it was accomplished at all.

"Milady," Ms Lockhart quietly called the other woman.

Grace smiled wearily as she made her way towards a fire where fresh tea of indistinguishable content was brewed. There was a little brandy in it and it was hot. That was the only matter of interest.

With a longing gaze, she turned towards the other part of the camp, there where unscathed soldiers were.

If only she could go...

* * *

><p>"What in God's name made you think you could get away with this, Sergeant?" Colonel Money demanded.<p>

It was the same question Col. Christie had already raised, but the arrested officer had chosen not to answer. His face was closed off and for those looking closely, as both Colonels and the Captain in attendance did, they could see that it was anger the young man tried to rein in.

Anger, frustration, annoyance.

Boyd had little doubt that, given half the chance, Chris would attempt to perform exactly the same act again. The thought had kept him awake most of the night, along with the happier images and visions of a small hay shed and warm, luminous skin. Lucas and he had not gotten along well; in fact, their relations had been fraught and disharmonious, but despite everything, he was certain that his son had never wanted to kill him. Or vice versa.

Jean le Pilleur had not looked as if he would hesitate to kill his own son.

It was an unbearable thought.

"Why?" he asked before he could stop himself. His gaze was fixed on the young man who wore the chains of a prisoner.

Chris looked up at him, their eyes connecting. They were blue. Very deep and intense blue.

Funny how this had never before registered with Boyd.

The expression in the younger man's eyes was calculating, wary. It seemed as if it was Boyd who was assessed, not the other way around.

Finally he spoke, his voice sounding rough. The words were eloquent, probably rehearsed several times in the past, yet the emotion behind them was unmistakable.

"My father was a traitor...in the past. Now he is a traitor _and_ a murderer. He has to be stopped!"

"But not by becoming a murderer yourself, son," Col. Christie almost beseechingly replied. "Your future, your good name... Your family's reputation..."

"Will mean nothing once the full extent of my father's digression becomes public. My mother..." So far, Chris had remained detached in his tone, but his agitation rose and it showed.

For a minute there was silence as the young man grappled with his self control, then he shook his head. "Your order was to apprehend and stop Jean le Pilleur. I helped with that." He smiled sardonically for a moment. "I do not believe that there was any specific stipulation that he had to stay alive."

In reaction to this, Colonel Money angrily marched out of the tent, all but slamming the cloth shut. The sound was not as effective as with a wooden door, but the intent behind it was obvious.

The remaining men rolled their eyes, then Col. Christie announced, "We will decide your fate later, Sergeant Foley!" and left the tent as well, gesturing for Boyd to follow him.

Outside the Colonel stopped until the Captain stood next to him.

The two men slowly walked away, over to Boyd's tent, when the latter broke the silence. "What will happen to him? War tribunal?"

"Hardly," Christie denied.

"He is a very able soldier."

"I am aware of it, Captain, which is why I doubt he will receive more than a few days of arrest, to be carried out after the campaign on Paris. He has made very good points earlier, despite his lack of sense in following his self-set task."

There was a pause.

"A very talented young man, our Sergeant. Family trait, it seems."

"The family...?"

"Fairly influential family as long as...'Jean' still was on the correct side of the law. Colonel Lord Foley was one of my teachers in the early stages at Camberley." Christie smiled. "A course, I believe, you refused to take."

Boyd had the grace to colour slightly. Neither he nor Christie were under any illusions that, had he been a more obedient son-in-law, their roles would be reversed.

"His career, however, was taking a downturn, along with, it is said, the family fortune. Col. Foley sought a field command in the American campaign, where he was - it was said - amongst the losses."

"A fact we can now prove as false."

"Indeed."

Christie shook his head again as they stopped in front of Boyd's tent. "To answer your question, though, Col. Money and I have already decided that Sergeant Christopher Foley will be joining our ride onto Paris as a fully instated officer. It will be his chance to prove himself worthy of the trust we - you - put in him."

Captain Boyd nodded, fully understanding the meaning of his superior's words. Giving a small smile of acknowledgement, he then ducked into his tent. The Colonel smiled back, then turned towards his own accommodation for a few hours of rest.

Neither man saw the young woman squatting near the fire in front of Boyd's tent.

And nobody bothered to register when she left in a hurry.

* * *

><p>Boyd was an experienced man. More than twenty years in the service assured that he could go through the motions of a soldiers with his eyes closed, one arm only and almost asleep. This was the way he went about gathering his belongings and packing for the campaign onto Paris.<p>

It would not be an easy road with many skirmishes ahead, especially once they reached the vicinity of the capital. While it was obvious that Napoleon was defeated, he could still gather a large number of fanatics to prolong the inevitable, killing many men in the process.

However, this was not what kept Boyd occupied. There was nobody waiting for him at home, nothing he could return to. His wife dead, his son dead, no close relatives to speak of, even the house was minded by strangers. It would hardly matter to anybody he knew whether he returned or not.

The defeatist ideas he quickly squashed though, giving way to much more intriguing thoughts. Boyd wanted to live - out of pure stubbornness, maybe, but also out of curiosity. He wanted to know what came next.

He also wanted to - and that rather desperately by now - solve the mystery of the blue eyes.

The idea that Sgt. Foley's eyes were rather similar to Grace's had come quickly as he had been in the solitude of his tent, along with the question how he could have missed it before. Of course, in their earlier exchanges the young Sergeant had not looked so directly at him, and in broad daylight. In addition, he had never seen Grace's eyes in full daylight. But also, Boyd had not really looked for it. A sudden perception...a sudden thought. Now it was on his mind and refused to leave.

But apart from that mystery he wondered when he would see Grace again. If he would at all.

Direct marching orders had not yet come, might wait until morning. If that were so, then there was the chance that they could spend one last evening, a few minutes in each other's company.

The unspoken request and promise, no forty hours ago, to survive and return came back to his mind. Before his inner eye he could still see her pale skin, feel her shivers against him as she sought the warmth of his body in the chilly and damp night. Grace had not said a word, but before they parted, she had suddenly knelt before him, the chain of the miniature in her hands, and placed it around his neck.

"For luck. And for health," she had whispered, before tenderly kissing his bearded cheek.

Boyd could still feel her lips against his skin, still feel her breath.

He smiled.

She would be waiting for him. If he asked. Maybe.

Unseeingly grabbing his half-made pack, he ducked out of his tent, still smiling widely.

He had to squint a little in the brightness, but the assessing gaze passing around the camp site was routine. In fact, one would call it instinctive behaviour. Within moments he had therefore noticed Wharton and Jordan squabbling over a pot of tea or coffee they were brewing on the fire across the main path in the camp. He could see Colonels Money and Christie conversing over a message they had received, in the company of Lt. Worrell, who had apparently been sent by Col. Grant. From the corner of his left eye, he had a good look at the arrest tent, where Sgt. Foley was now led out from.

The scene caught his interest and he turned slightly to watch the proceedings.

Held by two lower ranked men, the Sergeant waited, patiently, for the next step. Col. Christie from the distance signalled and the soldiers carefully, but none too quickly removed the shackles from the Sergeant's wrists, then took a step backwards.

In a moment he would never be able to account for, Boyd suddenly was compelled to turn away and look in the other direction.

It was not a sound. It was not some movement or an effect of light. There was nothing.

Yet he turned.

And swallowed, all of a sudden sporting probably the most inane grin imaginable.

Her dress was torn in many places. Dirty almost from bottom to top. The splatters and smudges were numerous, blood, mud, dirt, wine, God knows what else.

She was even smaller than it seemed at night.

She looked as if she had gone through hell.

She was glorious.

Her smile seemed to almost split her face, her eyes wide and full of joyous disbelief. He could not turn away, could not stop himself from beaming back in return. Without volition he took the first step towards her, propriety and discretion be damned.

Even from this distance, he could see tears streaming down her face.

"Mama!"

Before Boyd had the chance to take the second step towards Grace, Chris was rushing by, running and finally scooping her up, twirling her around.

Time passed in slow motion for Boyd as he watched the scene unfolding.

"Mama!"

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	29. June 19th, Pt II

A/N: As previously mentioned, we are on the home stretch for this story. But it's not without a few hick-ups. So, I guess...enjoy. And Happy Easter.

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><p><strong>June 19th, later<strong>

Being unilaterally picked to go and placate a roaring lion posed a bleak outlook on life, Cornet Jordan decided. Pick the Cornet. Pick the lad from the colony. What a wonderful choice.

Lieutenant Wharton, with direct and personal support from Captain Cavendish and both Colonels, had decided that it was Jordan who would have to go and make certain that Captain Boyd in his exceptionally bad mood would not destroy any necessary equipment. Boyd was known to throw, punch and kick things into submission or oblivion, whichever came first. He was also known to do this to people and Jordan did not fancy becoming one of them.

Of course, it was entirely reasonable to assume that Boyd's displeasure had already disappeared, once he had slammed his fist against a tree or ridden a mare almost to death.

From the sounds coming from the vicinity of the paddock, it was unlikely, though.

Boyd was still in a horrible temper.

Jordan swallowed and turned away, not at all eager to be the messenger that was shot. Then he took another step forward nonetheless. If he returned to the encampment alone, they would just send him back again. It was either them or Boyd. At least with Boyd, his death would be quick.

"Sir?" he asked tentatively.

His question remained unheard by the storming officer.

"Sir?" Jordan repeated, louder this time.

"What?" came the bellowed reply, though Boyd did not stop his angry pacing.

"Sir, we...I..." Good God, he did not even know what to say. What could he say when the facts had been laid out so openly? If there had been any doubt about Boyd's entanglement with a woman, _this_ woman, there were none now. Many men had seen it and those who had not had now heard of it, the tale expanding in leaps and bounds with every further mouth.

What was there to say? Really?

"Speak, Cornet! Now!"

Jordan sighed.

"Colonels Money and Christie wish to confer with you and the other Captains before the hour is out, sir! They expect you in Col. Money's tent."

Marking a sharp turn on his heel, Jordan did not wait for an answer, but quickly retreated.

Boyd continued his angry pacing, kicking or punching the fence of the paddock during the few short breaks he was taking.

* * *

><p>His first impulse had been not to go at all, to give her a taste of her own medicine. Or, more plausible, to avoid waiting for her in vain. The displeasing truth was, she might not come. She did not have a reason for it anymore.<p>

With her son back and an eager welcome into the tents of both Colonels, she did not need him anymore. The lowly soldier had surpassed his use for her ladyship. He was no longer required to provide protection or information. Her mystery was solved and men of rank would now flock to guard her safety and reputation.

That she had never wanted more than that ran continuously through his mind. That everything else had been just something on the side to divert her in her boredom.

The thought made his blood boil. Never...had he been used ill like that, Boyd was certain of it. Never before!

The fool he had been. What an unbelievable, blind fool! His blind, desperate wish for it to be different, for it to be singular had turned him into an easy victim for a bored noble woman. He, Peter Boyd, noted and decorated soldier, highly-acclaimed investigator, battle-hardened gentleman, had become an easy prey. Seduced by a pair deep blue eyes, the soft physical charms of a female body and the pretence of reciprocation, he had forgotten about all else.

Grace's manipulation had been so very easy, so very skilful and so very complete.

Even now, now that he knew the truth, he still wished it was different, still wished that she was just a loving mother searching for her son, who upon meeting him by chance had found a man who touched her heart. He wanted very much to touch her heart.

Yet to her it had all been a game. And he had been the toy.

Angrily, Boyd kicked against the grass on the ground and cursed when pieces of it stuck to his boots. Did nothing go well, for God's sake?

He stared at the small, empty shed in the middle of the meadow. In the cloudy sky, stars and the moon appeared only occasionally. It was a chilly evening, still damp, though without rain. A gloomy atmosphere hung in the air.

Maybe it was because Boyd knew they would march onto Paris in the morning. Maybe it was because Jean and a few of his men were still on the loose. Jean...Jack Foley. Grace's husband.

For a moment he stood still, as he had done every time throughout that day when this realization had beset him. She was a married woman. To a wanted criminal, a traitor and murderer, but married nonetheless. If nothing else, this made her expressly unattainable. Even if she wanted more than the little dalliance...

Irritation reasserted itself, sparked by her lack of truthfulness. The bare fact that she had lied to him, deliberately omitted facts in her tales. Heaven knew what else she had kept from him!

"Peter."

He ignored the sound of his name, already so familiar in her voice and stared at the hut. His posture was tense and forbidding, he knew, but he wanted it that way. She deserved a taste of her own medicine.

Her hand seemed small against his shoulder as she tentatively put it there, her voice quiet and a little confused. "Peter?"

As he turned quickly to glower at her, Grace took a step back, her confusion rising at his distant behaviour. His expression was closed off and forbidding, something she had not seen in him like that.

"What is it?"

"Explain!" he demanded harshly.

Grace's eyes widened, then narrowed immediately. It was a warning sign, along with the paling of her skin, but that might all have been down to the low light, so Boyd chose to disregard it. Her low voice, however, could not be ignored.

"I beg your pardon?"

He did not elaborate, saw no need for it. She, of all people knew that he needed answers and that it was high time she provided them. Standing taller, he crossed his arms over his chest.

Grace did not back down, her gaze trained intensely on his in an attempt to achieve clarification.

None was forthcoming.

She took a step back, but it was the only concession. Her posture remained just as tense as his, her shoulders squared and body up to its full height. A disadvantage compared to his, but strength of her character equalized that.

"I do not think so."

Silence stretched between them once her words had dropped like a dead weight. They stood, both like fighters in the arena, seizing each other up. Tension was rising, putting pressure on them both, forcing them to prepare for the split second when they would leap. The second moving would be the one who lost.

There was electricity between them, sparkling and sizzling, but it was not the erotic energy they usually felt. This was much less benign, much darker.

Boyd was the first to break under the tension, his movement so quick and unexpected that Grace gasped and involuntarily took another step back. It was no use, though. His hands closed around her arms like a vice, holding her forcibly in place, despite her struggle.

"Do not play with my, milady! I am not one of your toys."

"And I am not yours!"

His grip tightened and from the tautness in her face, he knew that it caused her pain, but she did not give any conscious hint that it was so. Instead and with a sudden, harsh jerk, she was free.

"Is that the way you handle women, Peter?" she asked sarcastically.

He ignored the barb, followed her again to tower over her, cower her into submission. "You lied to me!"

"And so did you!"

Bristling, he pulled back, only to grip her arms again. Breathing heavily he tried to stare her down. It was a mistake, for looking into her eyes he could see fire there, deep blue, but arctic now. Cold and dangerous. And very tempting.

Grace was furious now, he could feel it, see it even, and suddenly Boyd realized that she was much more dangerous than he had ever imagined. If she were a spy, dear God, she would have been brilliant.

"Do not play the epitome of morals, Peter," she hissed, bringing her face as close to his ear as possible. Her voice whispered with the sharpness of an arrow just missing your head. "You and I was just as much for your benefit as it was for mine. A deal. One you profited from no less than I did."

The reactive sound coming from deep in his belly was inhuman even to his own ears."Woman! Do not dare me!" he growled between clenched teeth as his grip tightened. It would leave marks on her fair skin, but he did not care. "Do not dare me!"

"You wanted the truth, Peter! But you cannot handle it!"

She had barely spoken the last words, barely expelled the last breath to form the words, as he was onto her, his mouth harshly pressed against hers. His tongue demanded entrance, willing to swallow the cruel words, to force her into silence, whether it was apologetic or meek, he did not care.

Her words were poisonous, acid in his blood and in his heart, burning there with a fierce anger that seemed to consume him. Yet Grace was not to be cowed, anger having taken hold of her just as much as of him. Her fingers pressed into the exposed skin of his neck and of his face, leaving gouges and angry red scratches.

There was no tenderness in their kiss, no finesse, or seduction. But there was the dark temptation of pain and hurt, equally given and received. He wanted to hurt her now, just as much as she wanted to hurt him. One of his hands grabbed her breast through the layers of her dress, squeezing roughly, mauling even. She hissed in pain, yet at the same time moaned into his mouth and pressed herself against him. The scratches from her nails became deeper, more fiery and then, not completely unexpected yet surprising, she palmed his manhood through his breeches and squeezed. Hard.

His growl filled her mouth and echoed back to him, and he tore out of their kiss and their violent embrace.

She stood before him, chest heaving, her dress already ripped a little. He had not even noticed tearing the fabric. She was the picture of defiance, of the unbending will not to be subdued by him. and as much as it incited his fury, Boyd could not help but admire her tenacity, feel it spark something deep within him that was not as deadly as his previous emotion.

Their eyes locked again and the fury was there, burning wild and hot, all but consuming them both. But there was a tiny flame underneath it, something much more gentle, something much more enduring.

Her lip was bleeding where his teeth had marked her and she soothed the sting with a quick gesture of her tongue.

It made his blood boil, brought him close to forgetting all else, but her voice, raw and no less angry stopped him cold.

"Force will get you anything, Captain, but not the truth. And no affection."

The vein on his temple began to throb again, showing the surge of wrath in his mind. His jaw worked as if he was swallowing the words and the actions instinct dictated him to take.

Without any further reaction, Boyd turned on his heel and stalked off. Not looking back.

In his wake, Grace stood, breathing deeply in order to control herself again, but not being very successful. This bloody foolish man!

This Goddamned fool of a man!

Biting her lip not to scream after him, force him back or tell him to go to God knows where, she ran her hand roughly through her tangled hair. Why did he have to be like this? Why could he not accept what was and not question what had to be? Why could he, they, not just...?

But this was not the kind of man he was, was it? He did not wait. He did not listen. He did not step back.

He always pushed forward on the path he had made out, without looking to the sides, without stopping to re-think. To Peter there were no diversions on his path.

A bloody stubborn fool, that's what he was!

Yet, it made her smile.

Such an unmovable man, and yet he moved her so.

"Stay safe," she whispered in the general direction of where he had retreated, her fingers touching her lips as if to send a kiss after him.

* * *

><p>In the distance the sound of a gun shot rang.<p>

Then another.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	30. June 20th

A/N: So, this is it: the last actual chapter. Unbelievable, isn't it? What started as mad laughter, when the episode titles were released, turned into this big!ass epic. Thank you to all of who stuck with it and me for, well, sticking with me and the story. Hope you enjoyed the ride.

Innumerable thanks go to my support team - those who laughed at me, but stuck around, and those who kept encouraging me when I whined and ranted. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Special thanks in this regard goes to ShadowSamurai83 and CatS81 - been with me from the beginning.

Anyway...now for the chapter.

Enjoy!**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>June 20th, 1815<strong>

He was up before dawn, mostly due to the fact that he had not slept at all.

This woman! This infuriating woman!

During every attempt to sleep, Boyd had seen her eyes in his mind. Their sparkle, the fury in them as she had accused him. She was beautiful when she was angry. And it had kept him awake all night.

Had his allegations been so wrong? That was the question that Boyd had mulled over and over in his mind while he lay awake. Grace could not deny that she had deceived him about her identity and her agenda. Not once in their acquaintance had she given him any information about herself voluntarily. That _was_ a deception.

Yet, if Boyd were honest, he knew that he had simply not asked, despite knowing better. He was the investigator and yet his own heart had won out over the sensible requirements of his profession. It had seemed that all he needed to know about Grace, he already did. He knew how her skin felt under his hands and mouth. He knew how she tasted, how to touch her to make her shiver. Most of all, he felt in the know when he was with her. There was this instinctive feeling about her, the knowledge that she was genuine and trustworthy.

His heart knew the warmth and affection she instilled in him.

But all this meant nothing in the face of her deception and the facts of her life.

The married lady was out of his reach.

"Captain!" The call came from outside, brought by Sergeant Gaskell, who could not keep his agitation under control.

Boyd rushed out to meet the man. "What is it, Mr. Gaskell?"

"Sir, a scouting troop brings word that they've found the corpse of a man near _La Haye_, less than half an hour ago. They say he was shot in the back twice. Executed, they say."

Boyd could feel his blood starting to pump. "What else?" he demanded harshly and motioned for Wharton, Jordan and Sgt. Foley to step closer.

Gaskell stood straighter. "The man had his hands bound behind his back and his eyes covered. He was punched beforehand too."

The men exchanged a look.

"Jean le Pilleur again...," Wharton muttered, resignation evident in his tone and his posture. Jordan mirrored his stance, while Chris bit his lips in frustration and embarrassment.

"My fault," he muttered.

Nobody said a word.

For a while they all stood in silence to contemplate the situation. Marching orders had already been given; they would move on once daylight was fully out. They did not have time to investigate this and they did not have time search for Jean.

"What else?" Boyd finally broke the stalemate.

Sergeant Gaskell grimaced. "Only one of the scouts was with us after the battle and he says he did not get such a good sight of Jean...erm...the former Colonel..."

"Keep calling him Jean, Sergeant!" Boyd interrupted testily. "I doubt anybody who has known Colonel Foley will still recognise him as such."

The Sergeant swallowed quickly and then straightened, but not before having given Sgt. Foley a quick glance. "Very well, sir. The men say they think the dead man is...Jean."

* * *

><p>"For all it is worth, Chris," Boyd said as he unobtrusively pulled the younger man a few steps away from the site of the killing. "I am sorry for your loss."<p>

Chris took a deep breath, but his attempt of a smile still lacked conviction. "I would like to say that I am not, but I do regret that he had to die like this. That his death was just as torturous as that of those he has murdered."

The young man rubbed his palm over his face a few times, but could not stop blinking. "There are many things I would have liked to tell him still. Accuse him of quite a few things. Say things that I swallowed since I was a young boy."

"I understand."

Chris suddenly made eye contact, the familiar deep blue intensely trained on his superior. "Do you?"

It took a few moments, but then Boyd nodded quietly. "Yes. I think I do."

"Hmm." Chris accepted the oblique reply at face value, apparently already deep in his own thoughts again. "I wish...I wish my mother had had the chance to say a few things as well. To come so close and then be robbed of the chance to clear the air."

Boyd tensed, hoping that the young man did not notice. To this very moment, he was not certain how much Chris knew. Mother and son had had their reunion and it was to be expected that tales had been told, but had Grace admitted to her son that she had ignored her vows, that she had taken a lover and that he, Boyd, was that man? Or had Chris known all along?

"It must be trying for her patience and endurance to risk a journey to such a dangerous place to find her husband and then hear about his crimes. She will need much strength and support to overcome the shock and disappointment."

Instead of an answer, Chris smiled grimly at first, but then his expression became knowing. "I do not think my mother still retained any positive illusions about her husband. If she ever carried those, they must have disappeared years ago. If anything, the news of his actual death will give her a conclusion to years of uncertainty."

His smile became even wider, and even though Boyd could not be certain, even more knowing. "It will give her freedom, sir."

* * *

><p>The fact that Col. Colquhoun Grant had personally found his way to the place where the 11th Light Dragoons were encamped showed just how much of a bother Jean le Pilleur had been to the minds of Wellington's staff.<p>

Col. Grant made no attempt to hide the relief he felt.

"Are there any hints towards the likely murderer?" he asked, though his gaze swept over the camp.

"We assume that it was one of his associates, possibly his right hand man. A quarrel over their future dealings or possibly over the remaining contraband. It possibly turned into a physical fight and Jean lost."

"...And was treated to his own therapy." The Col. chuckled sardonically for a moment. "A shame, really. Col. Foley was a good man. Once."

Nobody replied. They had all heard or said these words before.

"What do you know about the right-hand man, Boyd?"

"Not much, Sir. We have a name - a Harry Taylor - and I could give you a vague description, but that is it for the moment, I am afraid."

"Very well," the Colonel replied, before turning and facing Boyd squarely. "Captain Boyd, I hereby relieve you of your task to apprehend Jean le Pilleur and his marauders. You have fulfilled your orders successfully and will be commended for your good work."

Boyd saluted. "Thank you, Sir!"

Grant gave him a long, faintly amused look, but did not say anything. He was not above hearing rumours, it was part of how he had become such a success in intelligence work, and the things he had heard about Captain Peter Boyd recently made him believe that this case already had had a large impact on the good Captain's person.

And would continue to do so.

"You will be marching onto Paris in an hour, Captain," he finally said. "I recommend that you arrive there and in London safely. Your reward will be waiting for you in London upon your return."

The Captain saluted once again, though it was obvious from his expression that he did not understand the full extent of his superior's promise.

As he turned away and joined his staff issuing orders for further proceedings, Grant made no effort to hide his amused smile.

* * *

><p>The packs were fastened to the saddles, further gear stored onto wagons. The men had mounted their horses and brought them into marching formation.<p>

The regiment was ready to go, direction South-West. To Paris.

Only a few people remained - injured, rear-guard and all those civilians swarming the encampment.

She had not come directly for marching time to see her son off, the goodbye apparently having taken place in private before.

He could not see her at all and as much as he was trying to rationalize it, in his heart he felt the sting of regret. It was a painful feeling.

Despite Col. Grant's words, Boyd knew that it would not be an easy road towards the heart of the French empire. Napoleon might have lost the decisive battle, but he could still raise fanatic troops, who would extend the campaign for weeks, even months. And many men would die.

Nothing and nobody was set in stone to be safe.

Though he had not said it, Boyd knew that he would do anything in his power to assure that Chris would return home, safe and unscathed. Almost three years of uncertainty and fear for his life, his mother should not suffer any more over her son. He did not wish that for Grace.

And it was the only thing he could really do for her.

Everything else was out of his hand.

There was nothing a commoner like him could do for a lady of the Ton.

Arast, sensing his master's turmoil, neighed and Boyd broke out of his thoughts to rein the horse in.

In that moment, the trumpet sounded marching orders and squadron by squadron began to move.

Boyd gave the men around him a short look. Wharton, Jordan, Linster, Gaskell...and Foley. They returned the look with a nod, then focussed again on the march. The Captain drew a deep breath and then released it again, before turning to the side to give the encampment one last glance.

He could see her stepping out of the line of trees hurriedly, trying to cover the distance towards the marching troop, her eyes already scanning the number of men for a familiar face. She did not search long, though, before her eyes found his and the world receded. His horse was still moving forward with the group and he still heard the sound of hooves and quiet conversation, as well as the shouted orders, but his eyes were fully focussed on her.

For a long moment they connected, silently exchanging words - explanations, apologies, even promises - and then she smiled.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	31. Epilogue

A/N: This is - finally - it. The very and final end of this tale. Thank you for sticking around and for the encouragement. It's been an incredible thing to write and I really and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I'm glad, if I entertained you just a little bit as well. Constant and eternal thank yous and hugs go to ShadowSamurai83 who had to work for so long to do the betaing job. You're a star!

Now, please enjoy the finale...and don't kill me, please.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

**July 24th, 1815**

Lady Grace Foley looked around the room with mild interest, scanning the people assembled, absently registering the style and quality of their clothes and jewellery, as well as their posture and expression. While the latter came naturally to her, to gauge other people's disposition and mood, the former was a bit shallow, but she had come to find it useful. The more she knew about a person, the easier it would be to hold her own against them, if need arose.

The people she had to contend with the most recently had not been other members of society. At least, most of them had managed to keep their disdain at a minimum. While most certainly frowned upon the Foleys as a family, surprisingly little blame was laid at Grace's feet.

In the eyes of society, she was the poor, misused victim in the affair, betrayed and deceived by a villainous husband, as most members of the Ton believed. Despite her almost desperate attempt at discretion, her late husband's misdeeds and the sad circumstances of his death had quickly circulated in the salons and offices.

As much as she had wanted to spare her daughters' feelings, attending the necessary business of keeping their name clear moneywise and her son's financial reputation clean had brought with it a few unpleasant revelations and realizations that were impossible to hide.

Her late husband's only redeeming quality had been the fact that he had loved his daughters dearly and their dowry at least was paid in full. Beyond that...well, neither Georgina nor Margaret had taken the news well. Though they did not say so, Grace feared that they blamed their mother for it as well.

This hurt, but she could no longer pay much attention to it. Life had taken a turn towards the necessities and they could no longer afford the luxury of hurt propriety. Little was left of the family fortune, no further legally acceptable income would be made in the name of Jack Foley. All they could rely on in the future was what was left of Grace's own inheritance.

With a fond smile, she took a moment to remember her father. The dear, sweet man, who had never managed the proper conduct of a gentleman of society and therefore always been eyed with a degree of disdain in his son-in-law's house, had given his daughter one final, ultimate proof of his love and his shrewdness.

Grace knew that all freedom she would enjoy in the future would be due to her son's generosity and her father's last arrangements. She'd be financially comfortable, but more than that, she would be free. Nobody begrudged the deceived widow of a traitor that she did not mourn infinitely.

This, along with the joyous occasion, had allowed her to forgo the mourning clothes and instead choose a becoming midnight blue gown. Demure, certainly, but unmistakably not mourning clothes. Both Margaret and Georgina had already voiced their disapproval, their husbands saying nothing. Though she did not want to entertain uncharitable thoughts towards her relations, Grace could not help but be somewhat malicious in the face of the unprofitable business her sons-in-law had made in marriages.

Though it had been an unpleasant spot in an otherwise joyous day, Grace decided not to let it dampen her mood. The manners and attitudes of her daughters would never cease to give her pain, but she could no longer see them as a defining factor in her life. Her feelings were in an unspeakable way and she was not certain she would be able to keep the proper decorum. Social lenience would go only so far and she could not even be certain that he would come, that he would even want to know her still.

Not after their last encounter.

"Milady, will you not sit down?" Ms Lockhart offered quietly and solicitously at her elbow.

Grace's first reaction was to bristle, but then she acquiesced quietly and settled herself on a dainty chair near the wall.

"You look faint, milady," the younger woman quietly added. "I do not believe it would be seemly if you fainted on sight of the gentlemen when they appear."

The two women shared a quick, sardonic smile. "Thank you, Eve," Grace replied quietly after a while. "I am very excited about seeing my son again."

Both knew that the sentence was not finished with that.

Settling more comfortably, they kept watching the meandering persons in the room, sharing quiet comments about this man and that woman, laughing quietly as well. The pompousness of the event seemed so far removed from what they had experienced, that they could hardly imagine how the guests of honour would relate to this.

The ceremonial awarding of medals and promotions deserved an elaborate stage, and the heroes of Waterloo and the final campaign deserved their moment of glory, but Grace and Ms. Lockhart did not doubt that the officers and crew would have preferred a much more Spartan scenery for the ceremony and a much more jovial, less ceremonial party to celebrate their success. Gala uniforms were quite possibly not what the men had had in mind.

However, this was what the Prince Regent had ordered for the more decorated regiments and squadrons. In fact, the entire country was on order to celebrate the heroes as much as possible. Many of them would not appreciate it, thinking of dead and injured comrades, still feeling the horrors of battle.

Grace could relate to this now, the fear of the last years, the dirt and pain, the suffering of those days in June. It seemed so long ago and yet it was so close. She shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of the maudlin thoughts. They were here to celebrate. Her son. And him.

Before her inner eye she could see him in gala, though it was no more than a fantasy that had visited her dreams several times over the last weeks. He was on her mind, almost more than her boy. It was far from proper, and if anybody aside from Eve knew, her public shame would be endless.

Yet, who would should know of her little secret?

He would, of course, the moment he saw her.

With a smile, suddenly very eager to see him again, Grace turned towards the high doors that were now opened by footmen to reveal the Colonels of the regiment.

Both Colonels Money and Christie marched through, but in respectful distance to Colonel Grant.

The assembled crowd gasped quietly, surprised to find the head of military intelligence himself present at this event. Such an honour had not been expected. Aides and footmen followed, carrying boxes and bags of official documents.

Lady Grace rose along the assembled guests, intrigued by the high honour. Her eyes were riveted to the group of men marching into the room. Polished gold buttons, shining dark blue coats, gleaming gold braids and the bright white breeches. It was a sight to behold. The men presented the epitome of dedicated, handsome soldiers of His Majesty's army.

Though she tried to rein herself in, Grace's eyes were naturally drawn to two figures in the lines. Pride and affection swelled in her heart for the both of them.

Christopher, her little boy, now a man. Grown up, mature. A striking figure and a worthy man to carry a noble title. He would reclaim the honour to their name, but still be her little boy, she realized when he gave her a mischievous wink across the room.

Motherly sentimentality made tears burn at the back of her throat, but she swallowed them, trying to smile even brighter for cover.

It did not last, being replaced by an entirely different sentimentality as her gaze fell onto Peter, standing in the front line of the group, still at attention. His entire body seemed coiled, as if ready to strike, like a tiger, moments before his attack. There was an air about him, something she could not quite place, but she knew, given half the chance, this would be what she'd find out.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. Only slightly. The only sign that his body and his mind were not perfectly at ease with the situation. His military precision was a mask, just like her now polite smile was one.

He cut a handsome figure in his gala uniform. Imposing and impressive. Every bit the successful and dedicated military man. It was almost frightening, seeing him so devoid of emotion. No anger, no confusion, but also no tenderness and no slight hint of mischief. Grace felt it like a sting, being ruthlessly reminded of their harsh parting over a month ago.

Christopher's letters, few as they were, had constantly and admiringly mentioned his Captain Boyd, but there was little for her glean whether Captain Boyd still wished to know Lady Grace Foley, or if Peter, recognising his official position, could and no longer would know Grace.

She could see the reasons. Sense and propriety demanded it, but she could not find any reason in her heart to do what society expected of her. Of him.

With a sigh quickly suppressed, Grace focussed her attention on Col. Grant, who coughed slightly, to gain the guests' attention. He took a moment to look at as many people as possible, before starting to speak. His gaze landed on her and Grace could not help but blush, though she was certain there was no reason for it. Her behaviour was above and beyond reproach. Col. Grant's actions did not mean a thing.

Once again, Grant coughed, then picked up a parchment handed to him by an aide.

The introductory words passed Grace by almost completely, when she suddenly felt eyes on herself. Without even looking she knew whose they were. He would not have altered his stance in the least, but she knew that he was watching her, taking in her appearance. In a quick and not very ladylike prayer she thanked her lucky stars for her choice of dress. Appropriate, yes, but she knew it suited her well, the cut enhancing her figure, the colour bringing out her skin and her eyes.

Ostensibly, she returned her attention to Col. Grant, but her blush was barely concealed.

The Colonel read out a congratulatory note from His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, commending the bravery and skill of the entire regiment of the 11th Light Dragoons and it was with pride-swelled chests that Colonels Money and Christie received a standard of honour for the regiment.

Polite but intense applause followed and afterwards the groups of guests almost dispersed, but for Colonel Grant's voice stopping them. Carrying all authority, both personal and rankwise, he possessed, Grant ordered several men to step forward.

"Cornet Jordan!"

"Sergeant Gaskell!"

"Sergeant Linster!"

"Sergeant Foley!"

"Lieutenant Wharton!"

"Captain Boyd!"

Not one step out of tune, the called soldiers stepped forward, forming an orderly line. While the civilian guests were mostly just impressed by the precision, the three Colonels seemed to smile a little ironically. Christie, in particular, seemed to find this amusing. His eyes flitted constantly between his men and several guests.

Miss Lockhart did not miss the speculation attached to the gaze, when it fell on her ladyship. Trying to keep her composure, she merely nodded politely when the Colonel's gaze caught hers, but in her mind the thoughts rushed. Something was amiss, she knew it.

"Captain Boyd," Col. Grant announced, to which Boyd saluted smartly. "The entire regiment has fought gallantly in the recent campaign, which is an honour to its commanders. Your squadron, however, has been called forward to service above and beyond the duties required, which you and your men have fulfilled commendably."

Grant gave each of the men a look. "In honour of your extraordinary performance during the Battles of _Ligny_, Waterloo, _Issy_ and Paris, where you and your men took on duties far beyond your ranks..." The Colonel smiled. "Normally we would brevet you and your men to give the name to what you do, this time there was just...no time."

The first sign of ease became felt in the room, as most guests and even a few soldiers cracked a brief smile. Boyd, of course, did not.

From her position, Grace could see how much effort it took him to remain so indifferent. Somehow, though they had only briefly spoken about it, she knew just how much Boyd had hoped for this moment to happen. The final and official acknowledgement of his gallantry and bravery was overdue, she did not doubt it, could not after her discreet inquiries into the service records of one Captain Peter Boyd.

For the moment, her full attention was on him, on every line of his face, the cut of his chin, the authority and integrity he projected. She was proud, very proud of him.

"Therefore,..." Col. Grant drew her attention back as he walked down the line and stopped before the man he had weeks before all but threatened. "...and orders of His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, I hereby promote you, Captain Peter Boyd, to Major! Congratulations, Major."

It was only a brief flash, and Grace doubted that anybody except those who would look for it would have caught Peter's relief. Finally, he was where he wanted to be.

Tears of joyful pride rose in her throat, making it difficult to keep breathing normally and appearing indifferent. The other guests would read her beaming smile as that of a mother anticipating to witness her son's promotion, but Grace was so focussed on Peter that she almost missed it, catching only the "Congratulations, Lieutenant Foley!"

Once he had promoted Cornet Jordan to Sergeant, the guests assumed the ceremony to be over, but Colonel Grant quickly put an end to such a notion.

"Ladies. Gentlemen," he quieted the throngs of people. "In addition to their exceptional gallantry and bravery, Major Boyd and his squadron have also performed unsurpassable service to the security and prosperity of the Crown while they were in the field. It has been Major Boyd and his squadron who have apprehended a sought after traitor and murderer, thus ensuring safety and affluence for us all. In His exceptional generosity, His Royal Highness, has decided to expand the Order of the Bath to recognise unwavering and gallant service to the Crown in a wider spectre. The regiment of the 11th Light Dragoons, as well as Military Intelligence Services, are proud to name Major Peter Boyd to be a Companion of the Order of the Bath!"

* * *

><p>The party was dispersing, equilibrium slowly returning to the assembled guests. The unexpected honour bestowed on the almost unknown officer had shocked the more ranking society, who had left in a rush to carry the news and discuss them in other locales.<p>

Amongst them, much to Grace's dismay and disappointment, were her daughters. The girls had barely taken the time to welcome their brother back or congratulate him on his advancement, and from a maternal point of view on their manners, Grace found them to be severely lacking. It seemed that none of the things they had been taught by their mother remained on their minds.

Since then her mood had taken a turn towards the melancholy, making her spend most of the time outdoors on the terrace of the city estate. She needed time to consider the developments, at least that was what she would say, if anybody, especially Eve, asked. It was true, she needed to think.

With Christopher's promotion and the open acknowledgment of his honourable role in the capture of a traitor, his future in society was secured. Hardly anybody would want to know that the traitor had been his own father. High ranking military support had been shown and would be heeded to by society.

Her son's future secured and her own at least financially stable, there were few duties left for Grace herself. Once Christopher married, they would cease altogether. Giving her immense freedom, but also immense idleness.

Unless she found and accepted something, somebody new, to focus her life on.

Her heart was suddenly in her throat and Grace found it difficult to breathe. Five weeks ago in Brabant it had not been a consideration to give herself to a man, to this man, in fact. But London was not Brabant. And she was still a lady. And he...despite being a highly decorated officer of rank...still only a commoner.

Grace doubted that even belonging to the Order of the Bath would change that.

And if it did, was this what she wanted? Was she really willing to tie herself to a man again? To this man, to Peter?

Jack had been...not a good husband, in fact, but their life had been ordered, had given her to know what to expect and how to act. Peter was...different, unpredictable, volatile. Too easily wounded. Too dismissive... Too...

Shaking her head, Grace stepped up to the balustrade, fighting the urge to slap it in frustration. She knew it all, knew so many things that said it was wrong, yet her heart, her body knew otherwise.

She had fled the ballroom to think, but more than that to escape her quickly waning self-control. Being so close to him and not being allowed to say and do what she wanted, was unbearable. Worse even, she could feel his eyes on her the entire time, no matter how far apart they stood and how many people were between them. She dared not to read what his gaze told her, feared that she might breach decorum once she recognised the message.

She could not, should not.

"Mother, there you are," Christopher called with delight in his voice and Grace took a deep, centring breath to put her mask firmly in place.

As she turned, however, she could only draw on decades of experience to keep her mask.

Christopher was not alone, and it was not Colonel Christie's presence that made her heart beat faster.

In fact, if asked later, she would hardly be able to recall his presence.

Christopher seemed blessedly unaware of her turmoil, too exuberant and too eager to introduce her to the man about whom he had written so admiringly from the campaign. The mentor who took him under his wings and watched out for him, treated him almost like a son.

For a wild moment Grace wondered whether her boy was playing with her or was indeed this naïve, but he left her no time to decide. The men approached quickly, and to her chagrin Grace found her hands to be clammy, even in the summer heat.

"My lady," Col. Christie bowed, his smile far from innocent. "May I introduce you to one of our best officers, Major Peter Boyd?"

Before her, Boyd bowed slightly, picking up her hand in the process. Even through her gloves she could feel the warmth of his fingers against hers, knew she did not imagine the suggestive swipe of them against her palm.

"Major, this is Lady Grace Foley."

In accordance to protocol, Boyd bowed again over her hand, this time to press a polite and very proper kiss to the back of her knuckles. His eyes, hooded through the angle, never left hers though and she blushed deeply.

"Major," she replied, finding her voice horribly rough.

Boyd said nothing, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

"My lady," Christie continued, and Christopher nodded eagerly. "You will find Major Boyd to be a very interesting man. And I am very certain that he will recognise you as a very interesting woman."

It was almost too much said.

Too much. Too soon.

But only four people heard.

And two of them hardly understood the words, too busy speaking in silence.

The End.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Please, let me know what you think.<p> 


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